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SPIRIT- OF- IRON 

( Manitou-pewabic ) 

AN AUTHENTIC NOVEL OF 
THE NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE 

BY 

HARWOOD STEELE / 

AUTHOR OF “CLEARED FOR ACTION,” “THE 
CANADIANS IN FRANCE, I9I5-I918,” ETC. 



NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



?%3 


COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



4 « 

« * * 


f 



SPIRIT-OF-IRON. Ill 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 

SEE 28 ’23 v . 

©C1A759150 



» k t 



TO 

THE NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE 

“originals” of 1874, 

THE ADVANCE SCOUTS OF THE ARMY OF 
WESTERN CANADIAN CIVILIZATION 



















FOREWORD 


“Spirit-of-Iron” is an attempt to present fact in the form 
of romantic fiction. It portrays the development of North- 
Western Canada in the pioneer period, the main events of 
which, with one or two exceptions, have been closely followed. 

The characters are types. Hector Adair is intended to 
represent the ideal Mounted Police officer in particular and 
the ideal British officer generally. He is not to be identified 
with any historical figure connected with the Force. The 
plan, here employed, of symbolizing and tracing the develop¬ 
ment of a country through the development of an individual 
such as Hector is, I think, new. The politician, Welland, 
similarly, is a type, and has no definite connection with any 
famous politician of real life. The men of the Police—the 
Marquis, Sergeant Kellett and others—are also types, true to 
the extraordinary calibre of the Force. The remaining char¬ 
acters—whom the reader may identify if—and as—he 
chooses, all had their originals in the old Canadian North- 
West. 

Practically every incident and episode of the story had its 
origin in fact. The arrest of Wild Horse, the Whitewash 
Bill man-hunt, the holding of Hopeful Pass and innumerable 
minor incidents all occurred, though not necessarily in the 
circumstances described, while the details of the dangerous 
plot confronting Hector in Book IV are drawn, almost line 
for line, from a great if obscure page in the more recent 
history of the Mounted Police in the North. Hector's long 
struggle with Welland is not based on any particular conflict 
of this kind in real life, but that such things occur, in Canada 
as elsewhere, any man acquainted with the Services and poli¬ 
tics can vouch for. Finally, the locale of each episode is not 
necessarily to be identified with any particular point in our 
North-West. 

vii 


Vlll 


Foreword 


The word “Royal” is everywhere omitted from the title of 
the Force because the honourary distinction of “Royal” was 
not theirs when the events covered in this novel took place. 

I have described the book as “An Authentic Novel of the 
North-West Mounted Police” because I wish to emphasize 
that it endeavours to present the Force as it was and is and 
not as portrayed by well-meaning but ignorant writers of the 
“red love, two-gun” variety, and it is my hope that, through 
this book, the reader may obtain a clearer conception of the 
marvellous devotion to duty, the high idealism, the splendid 
efficiency which have made the Mounted Police famous than 
any to be derived from these inaccurate romances. 


Harwood Steele. 


CONTENTS 

book one: On the Anvil . 13 

book two : Spirit-of-Iron . 105 

book three: The Clash . 169 

book four: Coup-de-Grace . 263 











book one: On the Anvil 


I 




I 




BOOK ONE: On the Anvil 

i 

Chapter I 

i • i 

i 

The time had come for the North-West Mounted Police 
to say goodbye to Lower Fort Garry, the home of the 
Force since its inception some months before. 

In the clear spring dawn, the scarlet-coated column fell 
in, ranging behind it a long tail of ox-carts and wagons. 
Sergeant-Major Whittaker, of ‘J’ Division, a straight- 
backed, dapper, sinewy little man with a pair of fierce mous¬ 
taches, called the roll. The Regimental Sergeant-Major, 
trotting over to the bearded Assistant-Commissioner, re¬ 
ported all ready to march. Orders cracked down the line. 
With a shout, a thunder of hoofs and the roll of heavy 
wheels, the cavalcade surged into motion. 

In the rear of the column rode Constable Hector Adair. 

ii 

A fine, big, handsome fellow, Hector, a splendid speci¬ 
men of what the Province of Ontario could produce when 
it tried, and looking every inch what he was—the son of a 
hardy soldier-father, that Colonel Adair who had been one 
of the pioneers of old Blenheim County, at home, and who, 
before that, had served under the Iron Duke himself in 
the Peninsula and at Waterloo. This young giant’s broad 
shoulders and deep chest would have been the envy of many 
heavy dragoons, and he was six feet tall. His face, bronzed, 
with straight nose, strong chin, firm mouth and steel-grey 
eyes, had in it a great power and yet an idealism unspoilt 
by contact with the rotten side of Life. Men—a keen 

13 


14 Spirit-of-Iron 

observer felt—though knowing him still a boy—he was 
actually twenty—would regard him as a man, fear him 
intensely and follow him anywhere. Women would thrill 
at his physique, linger over his brown hair, know him a 
man, regard him as a boy and love him with a love largely 
maternal. 

More than this, he looked the soldier-born. No finer 
school for the making of men ever existed than the old, 
partially developed Upper Canada where Hector had first 
seen the light and spent his childhood. It had been rough, 
crude and half civilized but also vigorous and strong. Its 
immense forests, its rapid streams, its solitudes possessed 
by dangerous wild animals, had given him resource, self- 
reliance, endurance, courage. The most ordinary affairs of 
life—a visit to the nearest settlement, the routine journey 
to church or school—tested the quality of many a grown 
man. The barest necessities were won only by the hardest 
of hard work. Even the pastimes of the district round 
about demanded much pluck and stamina. Blue blood went 
without luxuries and handled axe or plough. Men were 
men there, boys were men in miniature, and women were 
worthy of their sons and husbands—more could not be said 
in praise of them. Altogether, the natural environment 
which had been Hector’s as a boy could not help but develop 
in him the first requisite of the born soldier—true manhood. 
And the sports to be enjoyed in Blenheim county—shooting, 
fishing, big game hunting in the heart of the great wilder¬ 
nesses—had made him a giant at last, with a heart that 
nothing shook and no nerves whatever. 

If all this were not enough, Hector’s boyhood associates 
had been of a character which must inevitably have shaped 
him into what he was. Take the Colonel, who, coming 
out to Canada to occupy land under one of the earliest 
settlement schemes, had built up prosperity for himself and 
constructed Silvercrest, his fine estate, from the trackless 
wild. The Colonel, from the first, had intended that his 
son should have a Commission in the Army and carry on 
the fighting traditions of a martial family. He believed, 
besides, in King Solomon’s adage concerning the rod and 


On the Anvil 


15 


the spoiled child, considered that boys should be seldom seen 
and never heard and held other ideas equally as uncom¬ 
fortable. 

The Colonel had not been able to spare much time to 
Hector, but, such as it was, it was well spent. He had not 
only thrashed him when he needed it, but had educated him. 
Knowing that the little country school could give his son 
only a rudimentary education, he expended an hour or so a 
day in teaching Hector many things in literature, geography, 
history and mathematics—particularly literature. By great 
effort, labouriously bringing many of the books all the way 
from England, the Colonel had formed a fine library at Sil- 
vercrest. The old classics were there, with later and con¬ 
temporary writers—Scott, Coleridge, Dickens and Alfred 
Tennyson, the handsome lion of the Old Land. Father and 
son had toiled most studiously over these treasures and it 
was worth something to see the small, brown-haired boy 
struggling with the heroes of Greece under the stern eye 
of his white-haired parent. Hector had the run of the room 
and on rainy days all the giants of romance and chivalry 
took full possession of that book-lined haven in the wilder¬ 
ness. Such passages as this rang like far trumpets in his 
ears: 

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 

To reverence the King as if he were 

Their conscience and their conscience as their King; 

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 

To honour his own word as if his God's, 

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 

To love one maiden only, cleave to her 
And zvorship her by years of noble deeds 
Until they won her. . . . 

These stirring lines, from the beginning, had filled him 
with strange longings and given him a great ideal. 

Besides these more general things, much of the Colonel’s 


16 Spirit-of-Iron 

teaching had been devoted to building up the boy into that 
splendid product, ‘an officer and a gentleman.’ 

Then there was his mother—a sweet, gentle, dainty woman, 
of marvellous housekeeping ability. From her, Hector had 
learned such of those fine, old-fashioned principles as the 
Colonel had been too busy to teach. Hector’s little sister, 
Nora—his constant companion in his boyhood doings, ren¬ 
dering him profound homage and devotion and regarding 
him as a demigod, the mover of mountains, the achiever of 
impossibilities—had done much to make him chivalrous. 
His cousins Hugh and Allen, boys of his own age who lived 
close by, could not be said to have much influenced him, ex¬ 
cept to make him one of the most reckless lads and finest 
sportsmen in the county, though from his older cousin, John, 
he had learnt all he knew of woodcraft and athletics. 

But the men on his father’s farm had done more to make 
a soldier out of Hector than even the Colonel. They were all 
veterans of many campaigns, or at least members of the local 
militia—none but these were granted work at Silvercrest. 
Grey old, lean old Sergeant Pierce, the Colonel’s right-hand 
man, had marched with the 28th, the Colonel’s own Regi¬ 
ment, from Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees. Corporal Hard¬ 
wick, late of the 95th, had served in the Kaffir Wars and 
accompanied the ‘Green Jackets’ in the attack on the Sevas- 
tapol Ovens. Private Toombs had aided the 57th—the fa¬ 
mous ‘Die-hards’—in suppressing the ‘Sepoy .Rebellion.’ 
‘Maintop’ MacEachern, senior naval representative, a lean, 
white-whiskered old sea-dog, had been a powder-monkey 
under Broke when the Shannon took the Chesapeake. And 
‘Long Dick’ Masters, the ‘daddy’ of the whole crowd, barring 
Sergeant Pierce, and so tall that he could give even the Ser¬ 
geant a couple of inches, had long ago led the rush of the 
York Volunteers at Queenston Heights. 

The influence of such men on a youngster’s development 
was inevitably potent. Thanks to them, Silvercrest had 
overflowed with Service tradition. As a small boy, Hector 
had been allowed to form them into a little company, which, 
under the Sergeant’s supervision, he drilled with unflagging 
zeal, until he was as efficient as the smartest instructor in 


On the Anvil 17 

the smartest regiment of the Guards. They told him yarns 
of a hundred fights and fields. They sang him marvellous 
choruses—‘Ranzo,’ ‘We’ll Fight the Greeks and Romans 
on the High Seas-O,’ ‘The Bold Soldier Boy’ and many 
others—which in their day had startled the French outposts 
in Spain or enlivened the fo’c’s’le of the Victory. They gave 
him such formulae as this, which he had from Sergeant 
Pierce: ‘Don’t knuckle down to a bully. Don’t start the 
trouble but take on anything that breathes if there’s good 
reason. Stand up to your man like a soldier, even if you 
know you’re licked, and fight—d’you see, little master?—till 
the last shot’s fired.’ And, between them, they drove him 
wild to serve the Queen. 

No wonder, then, that he rode out today in the midst of 
the Mounted Police. 

But why was he only a ranker—when the Colonel, from 
the first, had trained him for a Commission? 

Of this—a word later. 


in 

So the years of Hector’s boyhood had been passed in an 
atmosphere of idealistic tradition. 

His first attempt at soldiering in earnest was made when 
he was twelve years old—with the Fenian raids on the 
Niagara Peninsula. 

The Blenheim Rangers, one of Upper Canada’s finest 
militia regiments, being called out on this occasion to defend 
the frontier, Hector yearned to march away with them. He 
thought, poor youngster, that he might be allowed to serve 
as a bugler or a drummer, for he was big and strong for 
his age. Born, as Maintop put it, with a sword in his hand 
and epaulettes on his shoulders, accustomed all his life to 
hear of ‘sallies and retires, of trenches, tents’ and such mat¬ 
ters, his daily course shaped with the idea that he was 
eventually to have a Commission, this was only natural. The 
Colonel, equally naturally, refused point-blank to let him go. 
And—again of course—Hector took the law into his own 
hands and ran away. 

All was confusion and anxiety at Silvercrest during the 


18 Spirit-of-Iron 

following three days and a hue and cry sought Hector over 
half Upper Canada. When eventually he was brought back, 
a dishevelled, unhappy little figure, the Colonel found he had 
not the heart to punish him as he deserved. He could only 
gently reprove him and promise that, in any future emer¬ 
gency, provided the authorities would have him, he would be 
allowed to go. 

Though Hector’s share in the repulse of the Fenian raids 
was thus brought to nought, the attempt had at least shown 
that the spirit of soldiering was strong within him. 

The Colonel’s promise was tested and Hector’s second 
opportunity came with the expedition sent to crush the rebel¬ 
lion on the Red River. The boy was then sixteen and already 
of fine physique. John, who had a Commission in one of 
the regiments, requested and, to Hector’s rapture, received 
permission to enlist him in his company. But again Fate 
stepped in, cruelly. Hector got as far as Toronto, where 
the expedition was assembling, when a telegram recalled him. 
His adored little sister, Nora, always delicate, was dying of 
pneumonia caught in a summer storm. Hector reached home 
in time to hold her dead body in his arms. He was heart¬ 
broken. Grown pale and stooped and haggard in a night, 
his father made him a piteous appeal. 

“Hector,” he had said, “I want you to give up this idea 
of going to Fort Garry. It would have been different had— 
had Nora lived. But your mother needs you now. She 
can’t lose her two babies at once. Everything can be 
* arranged. My friends in the Rifles will give you your dis¬ 
charge. I hate to disappoint you a second time, boy. I’m 
asking you to make a big sacrifice.” 

And Hector—with a great effort of real courage—had 
answered quietly, 

“Of course, in that case, sir—I’ll not go.” 

So he moved a step nearer true manhood. 

iv 


At Toronto, while waiting to go to Red River, Hector 
had a strange experience—an isolated thing, as incongruous 


On the Anvil 


19 


as a wreath of flowers in the mouth of a cannon. He had 
not, at that time, the perception to realize that it was the 
first shadow of things to come, sent to open his eyes to his 
dawning power. 

One evening, walking by himself, he struck up an acquaint¬ 
ance with a young fellow named George Harris. After¬ 
wards, they saw each other frequently. Hector enjoyed 
George’s company, because he was refreshingly unlike any 
other boy he had ever met, an amazing complexity, made up 
of many extremes. He had odd fits of melancholy, when 
he said nothing, alternating with bursts of liveliness, when 
he chattered away for hours on any subject. Though he 
neither smoked nor drank, he could swear with marvellous 
fluency—like a schoolboy in the role of man-about-town. 
Possessed of an extraordinary eye for a well-dressed woman 
or a handsome man, he yet hated Hector to look at either. 
He had rooms in town, but persistently refused to ask Hector 
into them. No persuasion would induce him to go out except 
at night. Altogether, he was a curious fellow. 

Then came the revelation. The childish side of George’s 
character showed itself one evening in enthusiastic declara¬ 
tions that he wished he was a soldier. Hector agreed it was 
a fine life. That fairly launched George. Real soldiering 
did not appeal to him. It was the glamour of display—the 
great reviews, the bands, the gleaming scarlet. 

Quite carried away, he halted in the street, clasped his 
hands and exclaimed ecstatically: 

“Oh, I love to hear the jingling of the spurs!” 

Instantly Hector’s suspicions, till then stupidly dormant, 
had flamed up. He glanced around the dark street. No-one 
was in sight. They were in the bright glow of a lamp. 

Sending George’s hat spinning, he caught him by th* 
wrists in a fierce grip. And—a mass of fair hair came tum¬ 
bling down the captive’s shoulders—a pretty face, distorted 
with alarm, sprang into view— 

A girl! All the moods and caprices were instantly ex¬ 
plained. A girl! 

Hector’s heart beat furiously. He held her tight. 



20 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“Let me go!” she gasped, struggling. “You’re hurting 
me. We’ll be seen ! Let me go!” 

Hector flamed into frightened rage—he was very young 
and knew nothing of women. 

“Who are you?” he panted. “What do you mean by it? 
Supposing we’d been caught like this? You fool—you 
fool!—” 

“Let me go!” she begged. 

“Answer me, will you?” he stormed. 

Realizing that this was a woman several years older than 
himself, he became suddenly conscious of his helplessness in 
her hands and felt something not far from terror seize him. 

“What am I to think of you?” 

“Shut up!” White, with agonized tears in her eyes, she 
looked defiantly into his face. “I won’t have you talk to me 
like this. Oh, I know I’ve run the risk of ruining myself 
and hurting you, but I don’t care—no, I don’t! I’m just as 
straight as—as—” She mastered herself with an effort. 
“Listen! Do you think I’d have dressed myself up like this 
otherwise? Gone to all this trouble? And taken these 
chances? And kept you out of my rooms? You bet I 
wouldn’t! I’d have dressed myself up to kill and stopped 
you on the street. But a—a straight girl can’t do that! So 
I had to do this. It was the only way. Oh, can’t you see ?” 

“Had to! The only way!” 

Bitter scorn lashed her. 

“Yes, it was,” she said. Suddenly she dropped her voice 
and turned her face to his. “I saw you out walking several 
times. I had to know you. Hector, don't you understand?” 

He was dazed. He clung to her wrists. 

“You fool—” she went on, with a strange little laugh. 
“You are the fool, funny, silly boy! Don’t you see—I’m 
mad about you, Hector?” 

This frightened him more than ever. 

“The devil you are!” he ground out. “Who are you, any¬ 
way? What am I going to do to you?” 

Desperately humiliated, she fought to escape. He held 
her strongly. She gasped and prayed for release but he 
would not listen. 


On the Anvil 


21 

“Hector,” she had implored, at last, “if you’re a gentle¬ 
man—if you’ve any sense of chivalry—!” 

Any sense of chivalry ? She had struck the right note. 

He let her go—watched her run away until the night 
swallowed her. Then, in a sort of stupour, he picked up 
his swagger stick and walked back to his quarters. . . . 

Nothing in his experience, before or since, had so closely 
resembled a ‘love affair.’ 


v 

Strangely enough, it was to his father’s death that Hector 
eventually owed his opportunity to achieve the life for which 
he had been trained since birth—life in the service of the 
Queen; and the realization of his boyhood dreams of chivalry. 

To this, too, he owed the fact that, when eventually he 
donned the scarlet tunic, that tunic was, not the gold-laced 
vestment of an officer, but the plain coat of a ranker, in the 
Mounted Police. 

The status under which he entered the Service was a heavy 
disappointment. His early enlistments in the militia or the 
Rifles for the Red River had been merely preliminary canters 
regarded at the time as useful training for the future Com¬ 
mission. Hector was not ashamed of his ranker’s uniform. 
He knew the true worth of the man who carries the rifle 
and pack. Though the sword points the way, the bayonet 
must follow—or there can be no victory. But the high 
heart aspires to the sword rather than the bayonet. It is 
not always easy to follow. It is always difficult to lead. He 
wished to lead—had been trained and moulded for leader¬ 
ship. To have to relinquish leadership or give up the Service 
altogether had been a terrible blow to him—how terrible only 
those who come of Service blood and have lived for years 
in a Service atmosphere can really appreciate. 

For to such as these—to such as Hector—the Army is no 
machine, no hide-bound association of slaves marching in 
the lockstep of brutal discipline; nor is it a great dramatic 
society devoted to meaningless ritual and pompous display. 
At its worst, it is not the raving monster of ignorant fancy, 


22 


Spirit-of-Iron 

revelling in sacrifice and blood. But it is something so won¬ 
derful that no pen on earth can picture it. It is a glorious 
brotherhood, a religion giving and demanding much of its 
votaries—demanding dauntless devotion, iron endurance, 
inflexible loyalty to God, King, division, battalion—giving 
the knowledge of work well done and petty selfishness vol¬ 
untarily set aside for the good of the common cause. To 
such as these there is marvellous music in the wild voice of 
the bugle—hallowed by sacred memories and age-old tradi¬ 
tions—and the majestic dignity and power in the mere sight 
of a brigade presenting arms will bring a lump to their 
throats, while the Colours, tattered, stained with the blood 
of heroes, emblazoned with the names of great victories, 
have about them something almost divine. They have one 
mistress—these Service men—one mother, one sister, whose 
honour is in their hands and for whom they will die without 
a murmur. She watches them, rewards them, punishes them, 
loves them, guards them, from the ‘Reveille’ of their first 
morning to the ‘Last Post’ and three rounds blank of the 
last night of all. She is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, 
terrible as an army with banners. They call her The 
Regiment. 

A place in this great brotherhood belongs to every soldier. 
But the officer is the High Priest of the order. It is for him 
to guide and encourage his men, to rally the broken line, halt 
the retreat, give fresh life to the failing charge and gather 
the spears into his breast to make a place for them to follow. 
Rob a boy trained for leadership of his birthright and he 
loses everything he considers worth while. Cut him off from 
The Regiment and—break his heart. 

The Colonel had succumbed to a stroke. His fatal illness 
had not come suddenly. From the day of Nora’s death, it 
had begun. Nora seemed to have taken away the Colonel’s 
vigour with her. But the decline was not solely on her 
account. For years, though Hector had not known it till 
too late, the Colonel had laboured under a heavy financial 
burden—notes endorsed—bad harvests—family honour—• 
the old, old story. 

To this state of affairs, above everything, the change of 


On the Anvil 


23 


plans for Hector’s future had been due. The old gentleman 
had torn his heart out when he told his son that he must give 
up the idea of a Regular Commission or even of enlisting 
because it had become his duty to go into business and 
redeem the family fortune. 

The hideous truth had revealed itself by slow degrees after 
the Colonel’s death, when it was seen that practically nothing 
was left for Hector and his mother, that Silvercrest and 
everything in it must go, that Hector would have to get some 
kind of work at once and that Mrs. Adair must transfer 
herself to John’s, for the time at least. 

Came into Hector’s hands, at this crisis, a clipping, like 
the blast of a trumpet sounding specially for him. 

‘Recruiting for New Police Force Commences,’ said the 
headlines of the clipping. ‘Officers in City.’ 

There followed a description of the measures which were 
about to enforce the new North-West Mounted Police Act. 
It seemed that three hundred men ‘who should be mounted 
as the Government should from time to time direct,’ were 
being assembled for duty as military constabulary in the 
North-West Territories. ‘No person shall be appointed to 
the Police Force unless he be of sound constitution, active 
and able-bodied, able to ride, of good character, able to read 
and write either the English or French language and between 
the ages of 18 and 40 years.’ This extract had shown Hector 
that he could easily qualify. 

The clipping came from a Toronto paper and was dated 
August, 1873. 

Here was his chance. It was ‘now or never.’ Fate or 
Destiny had placed that item in his hands, for a purpose, 
and that purpose must be fulfilled. Then and there, Hector 
had resolved to accept the chance. . . . 

There was in the dining-room at Silvercrest, carved in 
stone above the fireplace, a crest and motto, the coat-of-arms 
of the Colonel’s branch of the Adair family. Hector, in the 
old days, had eagerly gained from his father a full knowl¬ 
edge of the meaning of every device and had even become 
capable, in time, of reciting every syllable of the heraldic 
language describing the coat-of-arms. This had been placed 


24 


Spirit-of-Iron 

upon the shield to commemorate the gallantry of an Adair 
at Bannockburn; that to symbolize the endurance of another 
at Sluys. The history of the family was written in the 
design. And it bore not one vestige of dishonour. 

“Remember, Hector,” the Colonel had often said fiercely, 
“the shield is clean. Mind you keep it so!” 

Beneath the clean shield was the motto, consisting of two 
words only, but in these words also might be read the story 
of a mighty line: 

‘Strong.—Steadfast/ 

All that ‘Strong’ can mean, all that ‘Steadfast’ can imply, 
the Adairs had always been. Woe betide the luckless wight 
who should be the first to deviate from it! 

‘Strong! Steadfast!’ 

Strong and steadfast Hector would have to be if he was 
to maintain the honour of the Adairs in the times before him. 
His feet were on the sunset trail. At its end was Life, swift 
and fierce and terrible. Years and years of battling through 
wild winters and blazing summers, on barren mountains, 
lifeless prairies, and death-dominated rivers lay before him 
and in that Western land the hands of many men—merciless 
Indians, murderous horse-thieves, gamblers, whiskey-traders 
and desperadoes—would be against him—against him and 
his comrades of the Police. He knew it. He knew that 
the Force would be but a handful scattered over a vast 
wilderness which it must protect and eventually free from 
the domination of innumerable enemies. He knew the great¬ 
ness of the task to be achieved before the Flag could wave 
in security from sea to sea. Here was a wonderful oppor¬ 
tunity, a real fight to win, a splendid objective. It should 
have frightened him. Instead he welcomed it. He was as 
fitted for the work before him as any man could be. 

‘Strong. Steadfast.’ 


Chapter II 


i 

At Winnipeg, straggling its hundred-odd houses, its dozen 
stores, its sturdy churches and its garish saloons along the 
muddy trial, the column found the entire population await¬ 
ing them. During the winter the Police had made many 
staunch friends. There were cheery greetings enough and 
to spare for Hector as he rode along with his comrades 
through the little crowd. Here was a shout and a wave from 
Big Jim Hackett, owner of the Hell's Gate saloon, there a 
smiling blush from pretty Miss Sinclair, one of the local 
lights, which drew upon him a volley of chaff. Stout, griz¬ 
zled, jovial and ‘unco’ canny’ Andrew Ferguson, the village 
baker, received him with a round of Gaelic and a burst of 
Cree which betrayed his parentage. Johnny Oakdale, the 
little hardware man with whom Hector had become pleas¬ 
antly intimate when they erected stoves at the lower fort 
months before, gave him a shake of the hand which was 
worth a dozen noisier welcomes. 

Now that the hour when he must part with these great¬ 
hearted friends was actually upon him, Hector found him¬ 
self stirred with regret. Recalling happy times, he almost 
wished that he could remain in the settlement forever or, 
better still, take the entire population into the North-West 
with him. 


ii 

Arriving at Dufferin, they joined in preparing for their 
tremendous march. The Commissioner and the rest of the 
Force came into camp, bringing more horses and wagons 
and an army of agricultural implements—they would be 
dependent entirely on themselves for food in the country 

25 


26 Spirit-of-Iron 

to which they were going. A marvellous atmosphere took 
possession of the camp. The crews of the Golden Hind, 
the Santa Maria and the Nonsuch, which carried Drake and 
Columbus and the first officers of the Hudson’s Bay Com¬ 
pany into the new and unknown world, must have felt just 
such an atmosphere as they got ready for sea. La Ver- 
andrye, Champlain, La Salle were close kin to the men of 
the Mounted Police assembling at Dufferin. 

Languid June drifted into the sunny splendors of July 
and the white-helmeted, red-coated little column began its 
march Westward. 

To establish posts through that great wilderness, now 
tenanted only by a few white settlers, Hudson’s Bay traders 
and other traders who dealt in poison-whiskey with nomadic 
bands of Indians; and from these posts to enforce over 
every yard of that immensity the laws of Canada—that was 
their task. They played the dual role of soldier-pioneers. 

But they were soldiers and soldiers only in the routine 
that governed them in camp and on the march. From dawn 
to dusk, each day slipped easily by. The advance led them 
over mile on mile of wind-swept prairie blazing with wild 
flowers, trilling with the songs of birds and insects, dappled 
with sun and shadow, sweetly perfumed, a hundred tales 
of hoof and claw on its broad surface and the cloudless 
sky above. Sunset, when the tired teams halted, the tents 
sprang up, the wagons marshalled themselves into line 
abreast, the scouts and guards came loping in and the smoke 
of cooking fires arose—sunset, when the glories of the King¬ 
dom of Heaven flamed for a moment in the dusk, was an 
hour of splendor. Then, after supper, the older officers told 
them strange stories, they sang choruses to the accompani¬ 
ment of mouth-organ, concertina or violin, and the happy 
half-breed drivers danced the Red River jig on a special 
door they carried in the carts. Coffee followed and a gen¬ 
eral departure to the tents; more laughing as all hands set¬ 
tled down for the night; and so they came to the last 
bugle-call of a day punctuated by bugle-calls, ‘Lights Out’ 
quivered dolefully through the lines, the orange cones of 
glowing canvas vanished one by one and the deep silence 


On the Anvil 


27 


of night in vast spaces, broken only by the occasional stamp¬ 
ing of restless horses, descended on the camp, leaving the 
sentries to watch the stars alone. 

There was plenty of hard work and much discomfort, 
rising towards the end, for some of them, to real hardship. 
But they were young and as keen and vigorous as steel 
blades. They cheerfully stood it all. 

Hector preferred duty with the advance-guard or scouts 
to anything else. There was much more to see and do there, 
and courage, strength and intense vigilance were essential. 
Many useful lessons were to be learned in front and, above 
all, the teacher was the finest scout, the wisest plainsman, 
the surest horseman in the column, old in Indian fighting, 
versed in all the legends of the country, knowing the 
Indians as a mother knows her children and the prairies as 
a postman knows his beat. Though usually silent and dis¬ 
tant, this giant seemed to take a fancy to Hector and unbent 
to him always. After a time they made a custom of riding 
together. He was guide and interpreter; a quarter breed; 
and Martin Brent his name. 

Old Martin told Hector everything he knew, and started 
him fairly off towards being one of the best men in the 
Force. 

As they moved forward, week by week, through sun and 
storm, intense heat, dead calm, cold rain and blustering 
wind, the country changed. The wide levels of plain dotted 
with small bushes became little ridges, sharp bluffs and 
rounded hills. Then a maze of rivers appeared before them, 
running in all directions but Martin led them unerringly 
through. Next came a bolder roll of prairie, with wider 
valleys and steeper, larger crests, sweeping on again to 
blend with the confused jumble of foot-hills which fringe 
the Rocky Mountains. The Commissioner at last turned 
back Eastward. The Assistant-Commissioner pushed on, 
Hector’s division with him. Indians hovered restlessly on 
their flanks and came to visit them with tokens of friend¬ 
ship. Not a shot was fired against them. Once they passed 
through immense herds of buffalo, covering the plains for 
miles like a restless sea, the rear-guard of a tribe fast dis- 


28 Spirit-of-Iron 

appearing. At last the long-expected mountains rose in the 
Assistant-Commissioner’s path, marking the limits of their 
journey, a line of blanketed chiefs, a ridge of wintry sea 
hurling silvery crests against long palisades of angry sunset. 

Here they halted and prepared to build their barracks, 
the great trek ended. 

A thousand miles, or little less, had been covered since 
they left Dufferin. In their trail blossomed flowers of law 
and order. The wilderness became a Land of Promise as 
they passed. Today the iron road, laden with the traffic 
of a continent, gleams where their wagons rolled. Pros¬ 
perous farms rise everywhere on the expanse which to them 
was only an Indian hunting-ground. Young towns stand 
where they pitched their lonely tents. Proud cities blaze 
and thunder where they built their lonely forts and in peace 
and ease a People reap the harvest sown by them in peril 
and privation. 


hi 

Before winter took full command the barracks were built 
—rough cabins, enclosed in a stockade—and the Flag 
hoisted. They christened the place Fort Macleod, in honour 
of their chief. 

In the meantime, callers came and left their cards, came 
from everywhere—white men and Indians—but especially 
Indians. One of the first visitors was Crowfoot, chief of 
the Blackfoot Nation, who rode in with his fellow-chiefs 
of the Bloods and Piegans, a Prince of the Plains sur¬ 
rounded by his Court. They were tall, straight, fearless 
men, well armed, dressed in buffalo-robes or gay blankets, 
richly beaded moccasins and leggings, brass rings round 
their neat black braids, feathers in their hair. Martin be¬ 
gan the pow-wow by presenting them to the Assistant-Com¬ 
missioner. Then they squatted in a semi-circle before him 
and passed around the pipe of peace. 

When the Colonel had explained the why and wherefore 
of the Force and Martin had interpreted, his long hair 
thrown back, his eyes blazing, the chiefs stood up in turn 


On the Anvil 


29 

and gave thanks. They told of the devastating fire-water, 
of women carried away, of robes and horses stolen, of 
pillage and butchery endured at the hands of beastly white 
men. They showed themselves facing starvation through 
the wanton destruction of the buffalo. But now, they said, 
those days were past. 

“Before you came, we crept in terror of our lives,” said 
The Gopher, “Today we walk erect and are men.” 

Most eloquent of all was Crowfoot himself. 

“Hear me,” he began, “for I speak for every man, woman 
and child of the Blackfoot Nation.” Then, baring his arm 
and with proud gestures, he went on. “I thank the Great 
White Mother and the One Above who rules us all because 
they have sent to us the Shagalasha, the red-coats, to save 
us from the bad white man and from ourselves. The Sha¬ 
galasha are our friends. When we see them we lower our 
rifles and show them the open hand. What you have said 
is good and what you say shall be the law. I have spoken.” 

Hector, hearing these words interpreted, remembered 
how they had marched unchallenged through thousands of 
Indians, looked at his scarlet coat and, with a strange thrill 
of pride, understood. 

Other visitors came to Fort Macleod in those early days 
—white men—spies sent by the whiskey-traders, curious 
American horsemen, and a few settlers, who thanked God, 
as Crowfoot had done, for sending the Police to deliver 
them from the drunken Indian and the low-down white. 
Of the settlers, none was so thankful, none became so popu¬ 
lar in the course of a few calls, as Joe Welland, who lived 
on a homestead of sorts some sixty miles to the south, on 
St. Mary’s River. 

A keen-faced, clean-shaven, strong-handed man was Wel¬ 
land, tawny-haired, lean, sinewy as a broncho and as hard. 
He came in one day from what he called his ‘ranch,’ riding 
a fast mustang which he handled as easily as an expert 
dancer handles his partner on a ball-room floor. First he 
called on the Assistant-Commissioner, hat in hand, showing 
him the respect which was his due and telling him that the 
arrival of the Police was something for which he had prayed 


30 


Spirit-of-Iron 

ever since he first came West. Thence he went to see ‘the 
boys/ who received him cordially and consented to smoke 
some excellent cigars which, somehow, even in that wilder¬ 
ness, he could offer them. He revealed a quiet, congenial 
manner and wits which were as sharp as needles. 

His antecedents, such as they were, were satisfactory, rep¬ 
resenting all his respectable neighbours knew of him, which 
was not much. From them the boys learned: First, that 
Welland was well educated; second, had been born in North 
America, none knew exactly where; third, had lived in the 
country at least ten years; fourth, was of unimpeachable 
character; fifth, seemed apparently well off; sixth, was one 
of the ‘livest’ men in the Canadian North-West; seventh, 
like most of his fellows, was a squaw-man. 

“You’ll like Welland,” said the honest traders. “He’s 
dead against the whiskey-men. And he’ll surely help to 
make things lively!” 


iv 

A short time before Christmas Welland met and halted 
Hector on the trail outside the fort. 

“We’re going to have as real a Christmas here as you can 
get in this God-forsaken country, Hector,” he announced. 
“The officers and men will chip in a day’s pay. The store¬ 
keepers will help us out and we’ll form a citizens’ com¬ 
mittee. We’re going to have a dance and dinner and ask 
every decent man and woman we can lay our hands on. 
The Old Man’s consented, but it’s a secret so far. So 
mum’s the word.” 

“That’s fine, Joe,” said Hector—there had grown up quite 
an intimacy between them. “Who started the idea? First 
I’ve heard of it.” 

“S-s-h!” replied Welland, twinkling. “Not a word, boy. 
I—I started it myself. You see, I thought this-ud be a 
lonely Christmas for you young fellows, the first in a strange 
land, and we’d better help to make it a merry one. A sort 
of combined affair, it’ll be, d’you see—welcome on our part, 
house-warming on yours.” 


31 


On the Anvil 

“Good of you, Joe,” Hector asserted. 

“Bosh! Another thing—I’m going to suggest you for 
your committee.” 

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Hector. “Don’t do that, Joe.” 

“Why not?” asked Welland, smiling a little. 

“Well—you see—first of all—I—the boys might think I’d 
put you up to it. They know we’re friendly. Second, I 
don’t want to push myself. If they want to elect me, let 
them do it on their own. Besides, I don’t know anything 
about these things.” 

Welland set out to crush this youthful modesty. 

“Now, look, Hec’. This will be done quiet and nice and 
proper. There won’t be any harming you in the eyes of the 
boys. I’ll just tip Sergeant-Major Whittaker that I want 
you on the committee because I think you’re one of the most 
suitable men they can elect. He’ll put you forward—he 
thinks as I do—and then you’ll get a place. You’re a gentle¬ 
man born. You’ve seen how parties should be run—yes, you 
have!—and you’re popular. Young? Hang it, boy! What 
does your age matter? There’s not a more manly or popu¬ 
lar character in the whole Force. Come, Hec’, to oblige me! 
Well, I don’t care whether you like it or not—you’re going 
on this committee!” 

With that he rode away. 

Hector hated this favouritism but was none the less flat¬ 
tered. Welland, it seemed, had taken a fancy to him at the 
first meeting—had apparently singled him out from the ruck. 
And now this remarkable demonstration of the man’s esteem 
had come. Welland was one of the best friends of the 
Force in the country. To be singled out for his favours was 
a high compliment. But Hector didn’t want to be on the 
committee! 

A few days later, at Sergeant-Major Whittaker’s instiga¬ 
tion, he found himself elected. Preparations commenced. 
Welland was mainly responsible for their success. 

Welland it was who acted as the link between the Police 
and the civilians, advised the Assistant-Commissioner on a 
hundred points and, though he modestly refused a place 
on the committee himself, did more than any other man 



32 Spirit-of-Iron 

to help the thing forward. He won the co-operation of 
the grouchiest store-keepers; solved the difficulty of obtain¬ 
ing enough flags to decorate the ball-room by having them 
manufactured at Fort Benton, in Montana, the nearest town; 
soothed all disunity among the members of the citizens’ 
committee with a quiet word here, a story there; and oiled 
all the wheels of the preliminaries with a master-hand. 

And, when the festivities had actually started, Welland 
was always at hand. If a guest became unruly, he brought 
him to his senses without disturbing for one moment the 
smooth tide of convivial joy. If the fiddlers got drunk 
before the dance, Welland had them in their places, tuning 
up, as fresh as daisies, when the hour for music came. To 
crown it all, he was so self-effacing that he might have been 
a helpful unseen spirit rather than a man. 

As for Hector, the Colonel afterwards congratulated him 
on the part he had played in the arrangements. 

“I owe this to Welland,” Hector thought, a sentiment 
which would have greatly pleased that honest gentleman, as 
it happened to be true. 


Chapter III 


i 

But there was more work than play for the Police in those 
early days, when they were striking at the roots of disorder. 

The most powerful of their foes was the whiskey-trader. 
To the extermination of the whiskey-trader they directed 
a special campaign. Hardly a day went by through all the 
winter which did not see an expedition starting out to raid 
some distant outfit or returning with prisoners and spoil. A 
long ride through solitary darkness, a careful bit of scouting 
to surround the blissfully ignorant camp, a sudden swoop 
at dawn with levelled carbines and sometimes with a flurry 
of resistance; the guilty parties taken, the robes and liquor 
confiscated—thus went the programme. Courage, endur¬ 
ance, cunning, endless patience were all required to win suc¬ 
cess in the great game and no man employed on a whiskey 
raid could claim that his talents were wasted. 

‘Red-hot’ Dan was operator, single-handed, of a den near 
the boundary-line. He was also a desperate character. 

But no law-breaker, however desperate, could go unchal¬ 
lenged now. The Police must deal with him as with all. 
An exception, however, was made to this extent: the party 
was picked unusually carefully. 

Sergeant-Major Whittaker led it. Martin Brent went 
with him as scout and guide. The three others were Con¬ 
stable Cranbrook; Constable Bland, the finest marksman in 
the Force; and Constable Adair. 

The trumpeter was sounding ‘Reveille’ as they left Fort 
Macleod and turned their horses southward. 

At dusk they reached Joe Welland’s shack, where they 
proposed to pass the night. A light gleamed through the 
grimy panes. 

“The King’s in his Castle,’’ remarked Cranbrook. 

33 


34 


Spirit-of-Iron 

Sergeant-Major Whittaker knocked. Welland opened the 
door, a startled exclamation springing to his lips at sight of 
the scarlet coats. 

“Good God!” he cried sharply. Then, “Oh, it’s you! You 
scared me, boys. I never know who’s prowling ’round in 
parts like these. But welcome—come right in.” 

“Did you think we’d come for you, old chap?” laughed 
Cranbrook, as they clanked across the threshold. 

“You might have done, at that!” Welland grinned. “But 
what’s the game, boys? Eh? Never mind that now, though. 
Whatever it is, you’ll eat and spend the night here. I won’t 
take ‘No.’ ” 

“Here’s our orders to you, Welland,” replied the Ser¬ 
geant-Major. “A place for five horses; water for the same; 
use of your fire for cooking grub for four hungry men and 
a boy”—with a smiling nod at Hector—“and shelter till we 
choose to move.” 

“Done! I know you’re after some darn whiskey-trader; 
so you’re welcome more than ever,” cried Welland. “Hey, 
Lizzie; fix fire, get table ready—quick, mighty quick. You’re 
going to eat on me, Sergeant-Major.” 

At Welland’s command, his squaw, a poor, bedraggled 
object, in home-made skirt and blanket, her hair braided and 
looped up behind, emerged from a corner and began to obey 
the orders of her lord and master. 

“Now, the stable. Not a soul will guess your horses are 
there!” 

He was a shrewd customer. 

The horses put up, they all sat down to supper, while 
Lizzie waited on them. Welland treated her roughly and 
Hector’s estimation of him bumped down suddenly. As 
they ate, Hector studied the room, which he had never seen 
before. It gave a not unfavourable insight into the owner’s 
character. Surprisingly well furnished, it was carpeted in 
buffalo robes, its walls were hung with wolf skins, and 
pictures of places and people dear to Welland alternated with 
cuts from magazines to give it a touch of civilization. A 
couch covered by a gay Navajo blanket occupied a corner. 
Several first-class rifles stood in racks. There were books 


On the Anvil 35 

on shelves. This was the home of a man of at least some 
culture. 

“Think it funny to see those bindings here, Hec’ ?* the 
observant Welland asked. “I tell you, Joe’s not as rough 
a diamond as he looks. I couldn’t leave Bill Shakespeare 
behind me when I first came West; and I find a lot of 
people in these parts remind me of Don Quixote!” 

Hector wondered if that was a dig at the Police. But he 
let it pass. 

After supper, Welland for the first time broached the 
subject of their expedition. 

“You’ll find that ‘Red-hot’ Dan a real tough nut to crack,” 
he said. 

Hector wondered how Welland had guessed. Trained by 
this time to conceal his thoughts, however, he gave no sign. 
The laconic Martin did not move a muscle. The road was 
clear for Sergeant-Major Whittaker. 

“I’ve heard he is,” he answered smoothly. No blind be¬ 
trayal of their purpose there! 

“You have? Then you’ll be careful what you do.” 

“When we arrest him—yes.” 

“I’d shoot at sight if I were you.” 

“We never shoot at sight in the Police, Joe.” 

“But ‘Red-hot’ Dan does.” 

“What’s he got to do with us?” 

“See here, Sergeant-Major—why not trust me? You 
needn’t play you’re not going after Dan, because I know 
you are. He’s the only whiskey-trader operating ’round 
here and-” 

“Trust you? Why, of course we trust you!” laughed the 
cunning Sergeant-Major. “But we don’t talk about our 
work to—outsiders.” 

“I guess I should be snubbed!” said Welland. “That’s a 
nasty slap to a man who wants to help you. I’m talking for 
your good when I tell you Dan’s a devil. Wait till I tell 
you-” 

And he narrated several stories of the trader’s daring. 

“Now,” he concluded, “if that won’t satisfy you, ask 
Martin there. Isn’t Dan a dangerous man, Martin? 




36 Spirit-of-Iron 

Martin, apparently asleep, pricked up his ears like a 
dozing dog. 

“You bet,” he said. 

“There!” Welland declared. “The whole country knows 
these things. You’re new—and you should be warned.” 

“Trying to frighten us?” the Sergeant-Major asked. 

“Yes, I am. If you’ll take my tip, you’ll go back to Fort 
Macleod for reinforcements. Five of you can’t take Dan 
without bloodshed.” 

“You don’t think much of us, that’s sure.” Whittaker 
smiled. “Now look, Joe Welland! We appreciate your 
warnings—but—how d’you know we’re after ‘Red-hot’ Dan ? 
And suppose we were—could we go back to the fort without 
trying to get him? How about Dan? Wouldn’t he get wind 
of us and skip while we were away ? How about our orders ? 
But what’s the use? Who said we’re after him?” 

“You’re taking chances!” 

“We can take ’em!” said the Sergeant-Major, fiercely 
brushing his moustaches. 

“All right. Have it your own way! I’ve warned you, 
anyhow.” Welland was obviously disappointed. “My hands 
are clean!” 

ii 

At four o’clock, having covered the twenty miles between 
Welland’s and the trader’s in excellent time, they found 
themselves near the scene of action. The Sergeant-Major 
ordered Cranbrook to stay behind with the horses and the 
rest of them crawled to the edge of the ridge overlooking 
‘Red-hot’ Dan’s cabin. 

Hector’s heart beat fast. This was the first experience 
promising real danger which had fallen to him since he 
joined the Force. 

Down in the long valley they saw the hut—grey, lonely, 
forbidding, in the dawn. But—unexpected blow!—it seemed 
deserted. In all the valley there was no sign of life. The 
shack was like a skull in the desert. Life had been there. 
It was there no longer. Had the wolf scented their coming 
and—taken to his heels? 


On the Anvil 37 

“By the Lord!” muttered the Sergeant-Major, between 
clenched teeth, “the beggar’s gone!” 

Martin smiled cunningly. 

“You think so? I don’t! You see no trail going away— 
no. The beggar home, all right! But he play dead. No 
time get away, so he think: ‘Pretend me gone. Foolum.’ 
See ?” 

Light dawned on the Sergeant-Major’s countenance. 

“Now, listen: Dead snake always most bad snake. Al¬ 
ways be more careful with dead snake. Make good plan 
now—he there, I bet you.” 

And so, assuming Dan at home, they made their plan. 
Keeping under cover, they crept to a point very near the shack. 
Sergeant-Major Whittaker posted Bland to cover the door 
from one hand, Martin from the other. To order the trader 
to come out was, they knew, quite useless. He would not 
surrender while the shack afforded him shelter. They must 
persuade him to admit them—then seize him. At the first 
sign of resistance, Martin and Bland were to shoot the man 
dead as he stood in the doorway. 

“Come on, Adair,” the Sergeant-Major smiled coolly. 
“You an’ me must do the dirty work. Keep the bracelets 
handy.” 

So, their revolvers in their holsters, the pair of them ap¬ 
proached the shack on the blind or windowless side. The 
sun was almost over the horizon. No sound, no movement 
betrayed a human presence in the shack. But one significant 
fact became obvious as they crept ’round to the front. The 
windows had been stoutly barricaded. 

Close to the door they were, now—the air taut as a violin 
string. 

The Sergeant-Major, motioning to Hector to remain 
where he was, strode boldly from cover and rapped thunder¬ 
ously on the heavy portal. 

They heard only the echoes clapping through the rooms. 
Was there really no one there ? 

Again the Sergeant-Major knocked—twice—three times— 
without result. Then, like a drill instructor on the square, 
he bellowed: 


38 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“Open that door there—in the Queen’s name!” 

And then the answer came. A streak of flame flashed 
out, and a deafening report. Hector heard the bullet zip 
past him. The Sergeant-Major pitched down upon his face. 

'Red-hot’ Dan was 'Red-hot’ Dan indeed—and decidedly 
at home! 

hi 

Hector acted as his natural courage bade him; but how he 
got the Sergeant-Major away he never rightly knew. Bul¬ 
lets buzzed all ’round him as Martin and Bland maintained 
a rapid fire to cover his retreat. Through a tiny loophole 
in one of the barricaded windows keen eyes watched him as 
he dropped on his knees and crawled out to the motionless 
form. From this loophole other bullets came ringing, in 
quest of his life. Mechanically he lifted the little Sergeant- 
Major and slung him over his shoulders—his hot young 
strength standing him in good stead. A minute more and he 
was safely back with Bland and Martin, gazing stupidly at 
the Sergeant-Major, now lying on the ground, and asking, 
“Is he dead ?” 

His clothes were shot through, his hands bloody and he 
felt sick and shaken. But the spasm passed, leaving him— 
ready for anything. 

Bred and trained for leadership, this was his opportunity. 
The Sergeant-Major knocked out, command of the party 
fell naturally into Hector’s hands, hands preordained and 
j long prepared to grapple with just such a menace. He had 
‘ no thought of the benefits which would come to him if he 
dealt with it successfully. He only saw that someone must 
take the Sergeant-Major’s place. He felt his powers rising 
to the occasion like a thoroughbred rising to a leap. 

The Sergeant-Major, shot through the chest, was not dead 
but in great pain. Obviously, he must be sent away at once. 
Hector, now firmly in the saddle of authority, was already 
at grips with his problems. 

“Tommy,” he said to Bland, “I want you to take the 
Sergeant-Major back to Cranbrook. He’ll manage it if you 
take your time. Then get on your horse, put the S.-M. on 


On the Anvil 39 

his, and ride back to Welland’s. After you get there, leave 
him with Welland and go on to the fort. Report to the 
Colonel and he’ll send a cart and medical help to Welland’s. 
Is that all clear?” 

Bland nodded. 

“Then listen. When you start for Welland’s, ride with 
the Sergeant-Major over that ridge there, in front of the 
shack. Tell Cranbrook to follow you, leaving the other 
horses hobbled for the time being. After you’re over that 
ridge, make straight for Welland’s, while Cranbrook will go 
back by a detour, under cover, to where he leaves the horses 
and wait till we come. I’ll tell you why I want this done. 
The fellow in that shack only knows that there are three of 
us—the S.-M. and myself, because he saw us, and someone 
else who fired at the house while I brought the S.-M. back. 
So when he sees three of you, one wounded, ride back over 
that ridge, he’ll think you the whole party—that we’ve all 
gone off. Then he’ll come out or get careless and we can 
surprise him. Savvy?” 

“You’re a corker, Hec’!” said Bland. 

Hector’s instructions were carried out precisely. In half 
an hour he saw three horsemen move slowly over the ridge, 
one supported by a rider on each side. They were in full 
view from the barricaded windows and their scarlet coats 
could be seen. 

But the garrison of the shack was in no hurry to emerge. 
An hour passed—two—three. Hunger dug its claws into 
Hector. Nevertheless, he decided to wait till doomsday. 
Patience, he knew, would decide this battle. The force that 
held out longest would win. 

If only ‘Red-hot’ Dan and his colleagues—if he had any—• 
would show their noses for just a minute, the whole thing 
would be over. Hector’s game was to hold them up, keeping 
under cover himself and to shoot them out of hand if they 
resisted. Dan, however, was too sly a bird. The afternoon 
wore on and still no sign of him was seen. Either he feared 
a trap or was perfectly content to spend the day indoors. 

It was when his patience was exhausted that Hector 
evolved his second scheme. Pondering the situation, it came 


40 Spirit-of-Iron 

to him in a flash of inspiration. He confided in Martin. 
The interpreter’s patience was inexhaustible and, knowing 
that the waiting game was the sure game, he had not troubled 
to seek out any other. But now he vowed that the little 
tenderfoot was a clever little fellow and threw himself whole¬ 
heartedly into the plan. 

Hector, taking off his boots, crawled up behind the shack 
and so to the roof, taking pains to make no noise. Then 
he awaited developments. 

In time another actor came upon the scene, but from the 
front and marching openly forward. He was a half-naked 
Indian carrying a rifle in his hand. He knocked at the door. 
Hector’s spirits leaped. The first sound of a human voice 
from within came floating gruffly upward: 

“Who’s there ?” 

The Indian, in Blackfoot, demanded fire-water. A panel 
in the door was opened and a face looked out cautiously. 
The moment, now, was at hand. Would the trader open the 
door ? 

‘Red-hot’ Dan, the Police forgotten, emerged, a cupful of 
liquor in his hand. The Indian raised his eyes—the signal 
meaning they had only one man to conquer. Straight and 
true, with deadly force and swiftness, Hector launched him¬ 
self full upon the trader. The Blackfoot dropped his rifle, 
too. Their enemy resisted desperately, the atmosphere elec¬ 
tric with his fair round oaths. But Hector’s weight and 
strength and Martin’s powerful aid—the Blackfoot was only 
Martin, undressed for the occasion—were far too much for 
him. In half a minute all was over. Hector had the hand¬ 
cuffs on his victim and ‘Red-hot’ Dan, terror of the plains, 
fiercest whiskey-trader in the country, lay sprawling beneath 
him, a hoodwinked prisoner. 


IV 

The Assistant-Commissioner promoted Hector to corporal 
for that day’s capture, and set his feet on the long, steep road 
to victory. 


Chapter IV 


i 

From beneath the skirt of the teepee a young prairie 
chicken emerged—no ordinary prairie chicken, but an absurd 
thing dressed in a little pair of trousers and a scrap of scarlet 
blanket. Hector grinned. The chicken stood irresolute, 
looking wildly ’round for a favourable avenue of escape. 
While it hesitated, two small brown hands and arms ap¬ 
peared from under the teepee and frantically searched the 
air. The chicken danced away. A dishevelled head next 
wriggled its way into the open air, two bright black eyes 
flashed a pitiful appeal to Hector, a soft voice cried: 

“Oh, pony-soldier, please, pony-soldier—catch my prairie 
chicken—catch my baby!” 

Burly Corporal MacFarlane, Hector’s companion in this 
stroll through the Assiniboine encampment, smiled heavily 
but made no move. Hector started off in pursuit. 

The ground was rough, his boots and spurs were very 
heavy, the agility of the baby was amazing and the crowded 
teepees were serious obstacles. Hector dashed ’round and 
’round, close behind. He tripped, scraped his hands, stum¬ 
bled up, heard MacFarlane’s encouraging “For’ard on!’ made 
another desperate effort, crashed over a box and emerged 
from the wreckage triumphant, the baby shrilling in his 
arms. 

“Got him, Mac!” he called. “Now, where’s the owner of 
this independent bird?” 

He was at the teepee in a moment, but of the owner noth¬ 
ing could be seen. Two years and more had taught him that 
most Indian women were intensely shy with white men. He 
had learnt something of their languages from Martin Brent— 
the knowledge was useful in his work—and by this time 
could speak them fairly fluently. The little squaw had been 
overcome by shyness but was not far away. 

41 


42 


Spirit-of-Iron 

He summoned her in her own tongue: 

“Here is your prairie chicken, O chieftain’s daughter! 
Come and get your prairie chicken!” 

No answer came. 

“O chieftain’s daughter,” he cooed seductively, “do not 
keep the poor pony-soldier waiting. And your baby!” 

The charm brought results in time. Two hands were 
thrust from the door of the teepee, the fingers stretched to 
take the bird, but of the lady herself nothing was visible. 

Hector was disappointed. 

“Why don’t you come out?” he coaxed. “Surely you 
will thank the pony-soldier—the poor pony-soldier who ran 
so far to bring your baby back ?” 

She came. 

Hector had leisure now to confirm first impressions. She 
was very pretty, in her Indian way. Her gentle eyes, clear 
and limpid as a fawn’s, glanced shyly upward at his own. 
Her lips, on which the smiles w r ere trembling, were red 
petals from the prairie rose. The two thick plaits in which 
her hair was braided were of that rich blue-black which is 
the exclusive birthright of Indians and Latins. She wore 
an elaborately beaded buckskin dress, which truly marked 
her as the daughter of a chief. The rare beauty of her body, 
unspoilt by heavy work, the looseness of her dress could not 
conceal. Hector could not place her age, but she was delight¬ 
fully young; and that was good enough. 

“Take it,” he said gravely, handing her the bird. 

Taking it, her small fingers mingling with his, she spoke 
at last, a swift smile bringing light to her face, like a rainbow 
in sad skies. 

“Thank you, pony-soldier, for catching my baby.” 

Serious, then, both were, till all at once the humour of the 
situation struck her and her smile flashed back to break in 
little rills of laughter. She laughed like a child, with her 
whole body. Hector burst out laughing, too, his spirit echo¬ 
ing back her mood. MacFarlane, behind, growled peevishly. 
A moment more and her shyness was back again. Her pet 
on her breast, a final word of thanks on her lips, she van¬ 
ished, leaving Hector standing there. 


On the Anvil 


43 


“You laugh with my daughter, my son? That is good— 
for to laugh is to be happy.” 

Hector turned, surprised. 

Before him stood a chief—a minor chief, as chiefs went, 
but as fine a figure as the plains could boast of, the very 
soul of chieftainship. He was tall and spare, straight and 
majestic as a pine, dressed in a barbaric splendor which be¬ 
came him to perfection. But his greatness was written 
mainly in his face. The wisdom of a hundred medicine men, 
made rich by long years of life, was in it, with strength, true 
strength—which is utterly devoid of arrogance or vanity— 
the calmness of a meditative mind, vast dignity and high 
authority. And his long white hair and mighty war-bonnet 
framed it all with glory. 

“You laugh with her—is it not so?” he said. 

“She has a cheerful heart,” Hector answered, finding his 
voice. 

“And you,” the chief asserted, “you have one, too. But 
kind also—few white men would run to catch the pet belong¬ 
ing to a little squaw.” He smiled. “You are interested in 
us? So you walk through the camp to see us?” 

“Yes,” said Hector. 

“That is good, for we are brothers, you and I, though I 
call you ‘son.’ You must come and see us when you will. 
We are—you know it?—of the Assiniboines. My name is 
Sleeping Thunder, and my daughter’s name is Moon-on-the- 
Water. So you will find us.” 

Moon-on-the-Water! She was like her name. 

“I will come and see you soon, Sleeping Thunder,” replied 
Hector. 

As they walked away, MacFarlane threw in a ponderous 
comment. 

“Funny old man! Girl’s pretty, though—for an In’jun. 
You made a hit there, Hec’!” 


ii 

Sleeping Thunder’s camp was only one of many gathered 
together that day in the Fort Macleod country, where the 



44 


Spirit-o f - Iron 

Indians were to meet the Queen’s officials to make a treaty. 
Hector’s division was there on escort duty. 

The years had brought swift and sweeping changes. To¬ 
day Hector was a senior sergeant, though still in the early 
twenties, knowing his work inside out, intimate with the 
red men, an expert catcher of criminals and particularly of 
whiskey-traders, his special game. Honest, hard, dangerous 
work had put the triple chevrons on his arm. And drawing 
nearer every day, though still a dreary distance off, the first 
faint flashes of the higher light he sought were slowly open¬ 
ing before his eyes. 

The Police had wrought great things in the few years 
behind them. The whiskey traffic had been much reduced 
and the old system of trading posts was gone, entirely and 
forever. The effect had been to convert the Indian to ways 
of peace. This in turn had brought the settler in who, up 
till now, had barely dared to show a timid nose in the coun¬ 
try south of the Red Deer. Already the plains were dotted 
with homesteads, and cattle roamed along the grass lands 
soon to become tenanted by the immense herds of prosperous 
ranches. More settlers and more settlers were pouring out 
from the East. Before they could be accommodated, some 
title to the lands they wanted must be given them. The red 
men claimed the whole of the Northwest Territories. They 
were willing to relinquish them in return for certain privi¬ 
leges. So treaties were made with the great tribes in turn. 
And now the tribes of the Macleod district had come to¬ 
gether to make their treaty too. 

hi 

“You have a love for our ways and an interest in our 
customs?” asked Sleeping Thunder. “You admired our 
warriors ?” 

“Yes,” Hector answered. 

They were standing with Moon outside the chief’s teepee 
on the last day of the treaty celebrations. 

“Would you like to see more of them? You have not 
really seen us until you have seen the Sun Dance, which we 
hold each year in the summer.” 


On the Anvil 


45 


“I want to see much more,” said Hector. The romance 
of the things he had recently witnessed had fascinated him. 
“I would like to see the Sun Dance.” 

‘‘Then hear me. If you do not mind camping with In¬ 
dians, come to us next year and I will show you. I will 
teach you all our practices, our stories and legends and more 
of our language. It is too late this year, but next year—. 
I will send a messenger to tell you where to come and when. 
I would like you to come—and so would Moon.” 

“You would like me to come?” Hector asked, smiling at 
Moon. 

She flashed a demure answer with her eyes. 

An attractive little thing, this Indian girl! 

“Then I will come,” said Hector, seizing the opportunity. 

With that promise they parted. 

IV 

In June of the following year, Hector, in frontier outfit, 
his uniform laid aside, rode out to meet Sleeping Thunder 
and to see the Sun Dance. 

MacFarlane saw him off at the stables. 

“Who is she, Hec’?” he asked, raising his bushy brows 
and smiling meaningly. “That pretty little squaw, isn’t it?” 

Hector, whacking the pack-pony into motion and touching 
up his horse, looked down and smiled in return. 

“You will have your little joke, won’t you, Mac?” he said. 
“The girl’s got nothing to do with it.” 

“Hasn’t she ?” MacFarlane mocked. “Oh, no—not at all!” 

On the trail Flector headed southward, thinking of many 
things. 

His interview with Sub-Inspector Lescheneaux, a wiz¬ 
ened, bird-like French-Canadian commanding Hector’s troop, 
when asking for leave, had been a droll but pleasing affair, 
ending very flatteringly. 

“No leave ov h’absence since we first cam’ out ’ere,” the 
worthy little man had ruminated; “one ov bes’ N.C.O.s 
in dis de-vision, oui; ’as don’ more to stamp out d’illicit 
wheesk-ey traffic den any oder sergeant I know; desires leave 


46 Spirit-of-Iron 

ov h’absence for one for’d’night; vraiment, ’e deserve it, too. 
Eef Inspect-eur Denton ’as no objection, Sergeant, you go 
by all means. I t’ink, Sergeant-Major Whee-taker, we say 
dis request granted, eh ? Good luck, Sergeant —bon voyage. 
Tiens!” 

The Sergeant-Major, too, had made Hector happy. 

“He’s right—right, by God, he is! Since that day at 
‘Red-hot’ Dan’s, Adair, yes, and before that, I marked you 
for a winner. You’ve certainly earned your little rest— 
damn my buttons, yes!” 

This was true, all of it. Hector had worked hard. He 
had acquired a reputation in the Force as one of the smartest 
hunters of whiskey-runners it possessed. 

But there were flies in the ointment and snakes in the 
grass. He had not yet been able, for all his hard work, to 
put down the traffic in the district allotted to him. Most 
of the traders and runners had long since fallen into his 
hands. Yet there was still a great deal of trading the source 
of which he could not trace. Some underground current 
was pouring through the district carrying liquor to the In¬ 
dians. During the past few months he had made a particu¬ 
larly stern effort to dam the flood. Success would tempo¬ 
rarily reward him. Then, suddenly, without warning, the 
stream would bubble out in some new spot—in twenty spots 
at once. The mystery troubled him. The hold it had 
secured on him made itself obvious in the fact that, though 
he had fixedly resolved to forget it for a fortnight, it had 
him now. 

But the glorious appeal of the morning soon drove it from 
his mind. It was full June, the sky was a light blue dome, 
golden at bottom, where the sun blazed, and flecked else¬ 
where with baby clouds drifting before the lazy wind. The 
long grass, clean, shining, went rippling to the edges of 
eternity. The larks piped in the hollows and the little 
gophers sat up to watch him as he passed. Hector was 
young, the day was young, and troubles fly light as thistle¬ 
down over the heads of Youth when the time of the year is 
June. 

In a minute or two he was singing a jibing song beloved 


On the Anvil 47 

by the Force, that band of happy warriors who would not 
take things seriously: 

So pass the tea and let us drink 
To the guardians of the land. 

You bet your life it's not our fault 
If whiskey's contraband l 

When he sighted Welland’s place, where he planned to 
spend the night, his roving fancy clicked sharply back to 
roost and turned to Welland. 

The friendship between them, though it had prospered in 
the years now gone, had never reached real intimacy. But 
Welland’s fortunes had been amazingly strengthened during 
recent times. Prosperity seemed to come to him unsought. 
There was something almost strange in it. Probably he had 
money invested elsewhere. As men count wealth in other 
places, he was not yet a Croesus, of course, but a great im¬ 
provement was palpably evident. Several new sheds and 
stables; acres of cultivated ground; cattle and horses; two 
wagons in the yard; the shack extended and freshly painted 
—these were obvious additions to the real and personal 
property owned by Welland when the Police first came to 
the country. Had he fallen heir to Aladdin’s lamp? How, 
otherwise, had he acquired all this so easily? 

As Hector rode slowly down upon the homestead through 
the velvet dusk, a strange thing happened. From the house 
he heard an awesome, chilling sound—dull, measured, heavy, 
—like blows on raw beef. And this sound was punctuated 
by several low screams, each whimpering, one by one, into 
a moan. Completely baffled, he dismounted near the stables, 
raised the ‘long yell’ that common courtesy demanded, and 
waited. 

Welland came out, peering through the gloom. 

“It’s me, Joe,” Hector called. “Adair!” 

“Oh, that you, Hec’?” Welland responded with genuine 
pleasure. “Good boy! What brings you here this time o’ 
night ?” 

Hector told him, still wondering- 

“Leave, eh? Going down to Milk River, eh? Fine! Fine! 



48 Spirit-of-Iron 

Of course you’ll spend the night here, and feed, too. Come 
on! I’ll take your horses.” 

When they entered the house, Lizzie was there, smiling 
cheerily enough on Hector, whom she knew well by this 
time—Lizzie, in a new striped skirt, sharing her man’s 
prosperity. 

“It couldn’t be,” Hector decided. Thereupon he placed 
what he had heard aside, in one of those innumerable 
pigeonholes of memory, where facts and incidents are un¬ 
consciously stowed away till wanted. 

In the morning Welland gave him surprise No. 2. 

“Hec’, you’re interested in the suppression of the liquor 
traffic,” he asserted. “I don’t know if you’ve come across 
this arrangement, though. It’s one of the neatest things 
devised yet.” 

He handed him that common relic of the prairie, a buffalo 
skull. 

“The horns, as you know, are hollow. The tips have been 
cleverly cut off and made into caps, to act as corks. You 
pour in the whiskey and put the caps on. Perfectly tight— 
perfectly safe! Load a cart up with buffalo skulls, same as 
all, the Indians are doing now, mix a few of these among 
’em and you can get your stuff into any reserve in the coun¬ 
try without being caught. Who’d suspect a wagonload of 
buffalo skulls?” 

Hector examined it, brain busy. 

“Where did you get it?” 

“One of those In’juns you arrested about two weeks ago 
gave it to me. I did him a good turn once. Want it ?” 

“I might get it when I come back. Here’s how!” 

“All right. Good hunting!” 

Trouble brooded on Hector’s face as he turned his horses 
out into the morning. 

He was miles on his way before the holiday spirit came 
back to him and the buffalo skull went bang into its pigeon¬ 
hole. 

Milk River, now! And Moon! And Sleeping Thunder! 


On the Anvil 


49 


v 

The nights between the days which witnessed the Sun 
Dance Hector thought wonderful, for it was then that Sleep¬ 
ing Thunder opened his heart. Each night they sat beside 
the crimson fire, before the teepee, under a splendid canopy 
of purple strewn with stars. The silence of the plains, with 
only the howl of a lonely wolf by way of contrast, was about 
them as they sat, their voices took on mystic qualities un¬ 
known to them by day, the air was tense with hidden forces. 
Nothing stirred and there was nothing to divert them but 
the flitting form of Moon, attending the fire. 

Hector spoke of one thing which dominated his mind, 
puzzling him. 

“At this meeting, Sleeping Thunder, I have seen two 
ceremonies: one the making of a brave, the other the re¬ 
newal of the vows of wives and maidens. To me these 
are as far apart as sun and earth. The first, to me—and I 
speak for all white men—is barbarous and cruel. But the 
second is very beautiful. Why do we find these things in 
the same race and practised by one people ?” 

Sleeping Thunder, answering him, revealed the entire 
sum and substance of his Indian philosophy: 

“Because you find a thing you think terrible standing side 
by side with something that is beautiful, you are puzzled. 
But there is nothing strange in this. It is true to Nature. 
In one man, to say nothing of peoples, you will find great 
evils dwelling with much that is good. In the white race, 
as in the Indian, practices that are beautiful and practices 
that are ugly walk hand in hand. The white man’s law, 
shielding the weak from the strong, is beautiful. The white 
man’s gambling dens and saloons are not. The Indians, mv 
son, are not the only people possessed at once by good and 
evil r 

The old man smiled, his bright eyes fixed on Hector. 

“But is it evil-” he resumed, “this ceremony of mak¬ 

ing warriors? What, after all, do we most admire in a 
man ? White men and red alike, we especially admire 
strength, courage and fortitude. ' You are content to await 



50 Spirit-of-Iron 

the great test of action to prove that your comrades possess 
these qualities. Till then you credit them with all the 
strength, courage and fortitude they should rightly have. 
But we Indians, we are not so easily satisfied. We demand 
that a young man prove himself before the hour of action. 
When danger rises in your very path and Death awaits 
you with his arrow on the string, that is no time, we say, 
to test a man for the first time. Your safety, perhaps your 
life, depends, in that moment, on the courage, strength and 
fortitude of those about you. Then surely you should see 
that those about you are brave and strong and hardy before 
entrusting either life or safety to their keeping? That is 
wisdom, my son, that is right. The boy must show that he 
is fit to go before we take him with us. Therefore, we try 
him in the Sun Dance. If he succeeds—then, we need have 
no further doubts. If he fails—the lives of men are saved 
and no needless risks are encountered by the remainder of 
the tribe. The test is severe? Yes; because, otherwise, it 
would be worthless. But no lasting injury results. What, 
then, are a few drops of blood, a little agony? 

“My son, the Indian does not shun, he embraces the op¬ 
portunity of that ceremony. Does it not show that he has 
courage, strength and fortitude, which crown a man with 
glory as his antlers crown the caribou? 

“Now in a woman—what do we admire?” The chief’s 
voice grew tender. “Is it gentleness, is it obedience? These 
things we honour, yes. But greater than these, and higher 
than them all, is Purity! White men and red alike, that is 
the thing we would have especially in woman. We are our¬ 
selves weak and corrupt. We feel in our hearts the need 
of something to help us to be better. So we ask that help 
from these, our women. We make of Purity a torch of 
light and put that torch in the hands of those we love, to 
guide us through the storm. We would have our women—” 
here he swept a hand towards the skies—“as high above us, 
as white and clear as yonder stars, to show the way, as they 
do. We would have them like the peaks of the World’s 
Backbone, which you call the Rocky Mountains, looking 
always, like them, upon our deeds, landmarks, like them, to 


On the Anvil 


51 


guide us by day, as the stars guide us by night, crowned 
with that virtue, Purity, as the peaks are crowned with 
spotless snow and, like those peaks, so glorious, so un¬ 
changing, so near the Great Spirit—nearer, far, than we!— 
that only to look on them fills our hearts with awe and 
wonder. So we would have our women. 

“But here again the white and red man part. Your 
women shrink from a public declaration such as ours en¬ 
dure. Unlike you, we do more than teach our women 
purity. We ask them to dedicate themselves to purity be¬ 
fore the eyes of all. We hold that virtue up before them 
as a thing to be prized. Then is the shame which follows 
any falling from the heights made trebly terrible. So do 
our women learn that it is for them to be true to the laws 
of the Great Spirit and leave love-making to the male—as 
with birds, animals, fishes, so must it be with men and 
women.” 

Moon, in the shadows, stirred restlessly. 

“Both these ceremonies, my son, are beautiful, for they 
glorify strength, courage and fortitude in men, purity in 
women. Then there is nothing strange in the observance 
of these ceremonies by one and the same people. I wonder 
—do you understand now ?” 

“I think—I think I see,” said Hector. 

He looked for Moon; but she had disappeared. 

vi 

When the great meeting was over, Hector said goodbye 
to Sleeping Thunder. 

“You go from us, my son,” the old man exclaimed, ex¬ 
tending his hand, “knowing far more of my people than 
when you came. The Indian’s ways and the white man’s 
ways are not the same and it is not good that one should 
take to himself the habits of the other. The Great Spirit- 
made us different and so we should remain. For one, vast 
cities, such as you have pictured to me—buildings of stone—- 
sheltered lives; for the other, open plains—teepees—and 
roving lives that are wild and free. But it is good that we 


52 Spirit-of-Iron 

should know one another, since, though you are white and 
we are red, we are not less brothers. For this, at least, you 
will not regret your visit, O my son, and I will always hold 
you as a friend—in time of need, especially, a friend. And 
now you ride back to your people and no-one knows when 
we will meet again. But we shall meet again, be sure of 
that!” 

Hector smiled. 

“I hope so, Sleeping Thunder,” he said; then added re¬ 
gretfully, “Tell Moon I am troubled that she was not here 
to say goodbye. Tell her I do not understand.” 

Pain momentarily darkened the chief’s face. Then he 
also smiled. 

“Who shall read the mind of a woman?” he questioned. 
“Go your way. I will tell her.” 

Again they shook hands. Hector wheeled his horses and 
rode away. 

An Indian watched his going from a clump of bushes on 
the outskirts of the camp, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. 

From the shadows, night after night, he had sullenly 
watched the stranger talking with the chief outside the 
teepee, watched him sitting with the father of Moon. 

Loud Gun was glad to see the last of the white man. 


Chapter V 


i 

The country round Fort Walsh lay deep in snow. The 
cold was intense. Darkness was falling. 

Hector, turning back to the stove from this cheerless 
prospect, thanked God that no law-breaker—no whiskey- 
runner especially—was likely to be out on such a day, and 
hence, that he himself was unlikely to be required to take 
the trail. 

He looked at the thermometer hanging in the window. 

“Thirty below!” he said to himself. “I pity the poor 
Nitchies in their teepees.” 

The poor Indians well merited a little pity. This was, for 
them, a small-pox winter, a famine winter. Throughout 
the district, they were dying by thousands. The Mounted 
Police were working hard to save them, issuing rations and 
ammunition to the bands that crowded to them for aid. 
There were men out on the job at that moment. But they 
could do very little among so many. 

Hector, dozing by the fire, thought suddenly of Moon and 
Sleeping Thunder, contrasting the terrible situation of to¬ 
day with that seen in the happy camp at Milk River months 
before. He wondered if any harm had come to them. 

The door swung open to admit MacFarlane. 

“Come in, Mac,” Hector welcomed him. “Guard 
mounted ?” 

“Yes,” said MacFarlane. 

He plumped down in his ponderous way upon his com¬ 
rade’s cot. 

“There’s an In’jun outside, Hec’—wants to see you.” 

“An Indian?” 

“Yes. Funniest thing,” he chuckled. “Won’t see any¬ 
one else. ‘Sergeant Adair’—those were exactly the words. 

53 


54 Spirit-of-Iron 

The nerve of these confounded In’juns! What d’you think? 
There’s the small-pox in camp and they want you there, to 
save someone or other. As if your life didn’t count a 
damn! I’d have thrown the creature out, but she’s so thin 
and drawn and came so far. You’ll have to go and say ‘No’ 
yourself,” he roared again, slapping his big thigh. “That 
comes o’ making yourself too nice to ’em, Hec’! That comes 
of your trip to Milk River!” 

“Eh?” 

Hector had risen. His face reflected none of his com¬ 
rade’s mirth. 

“Why, didn’t I say? It’s that little squaw, Hec’-” 

“Where did you leave her?” 

“Why, she’s out in the yard, Hec’!”—MacFarlane’s jaw 
had dropped. “You’re—you’re not— going?” 

“You fool,” Hector flashed. “Certainly I’m going!” 

In the yard he found her—haggard, worn out, snow- 
encrusted, terrible. 

“Moon!” he gasped, pity and horror in his voice. 

“My father—” she answered dully. “He is dying.” 

Pleading desperately, trembling hands outstretched, she 
told him everything. The plague had suddenly appeared on 
the reserve some weeks before. Sleeping Thunder, to escape 
it, had taken to wandering with his band in the loneliness 
of the prairie; but without success. Two—three—had died. 
Then the chief himself had been stricken. Fear conquered 
loyalty, and the braves, closing their ears to the prayers of 
the old man and his daughter, left them to die. 

“And Loud Gun?” asked Hector. 

She smiled wanly. 

“He was kicked by a horse long before. He was in the 
care of the white doctors—is still there. We were alone.” 

In this extremity, Sleeping Thunder had thought of 
Hector. By gigantic efforts Moon had grappled with the 
difficulties surrounding her and fought a way to Fort Mac- 
leod, her father helpless in the sledge behind her. 

“We believed you were there,” she explained simply. 

Despair had almost mastered her when she learned that 
Hector and his division had been transferred to Fort Walsh. 



On the Anvil 55 

But she had bravely turned her face to the new trail. That 
morning she had reached a spot some miles distant, pitched 
camp, made her father as comfortable as possible and 
pressed on to reach Fort Walsh before dark. 

“I know that you will come,” she ended. 

For a moment he marvelled at the girl’s strength and 
resolution. 

Then he voiced another thought. 

“But why did you come to me? You might have gone 
to your Indian agent—to any detachment. At Fort Mac- 
leod they would have helped you. Did you try them?” 

“No,” she said. “We wanted you. You! You alone 
can save him. We know you will give us what he needs. 
At Fort Macleod, they would not have helped us as you 
will help us.” 

“They would certainly have done so. I can do nothing 
more than they.” 

“You can save my father!” she repeated. “Say you will 
come!” 

Hector tried to grasp the beauty and wonder of this 
thing. He had heard and seen a little of Indian fidelity 
and trust but until now had never guessed the depths they 
could fathom. Moon, travelling through all the difficulties 
confronting her, ignoring every hand that might have helped 
her, had come to lay her plea before him, with absolute 
faith that he alone could save her father. The thought 
humbled him. 

But had she thought of the risks he must undergo? She 
was asking him to face almost certain death, at a time when 
her own people had deserted her, on the slight justification 
of their friendship. It was plain that she had thought of 
all this and in spite of them had not hesitated. 

“I will always hold you as a friend—in time of need, 
especially, a friend.” 

There, in Sleeping Thunder’s words, was the whole sub¬ 
stance of the matter. 

This was a time of need. 

Hector did not waste an instant in considering the risks. 


56 


Spirit-of-Iron 

He accepted them, in the spirit in which soldiers accept the 
perils of battle, as inevitable. 

“These people—God knows why—” he thought, “rely on 
me more than on anyone else in the world.” 

“I will come—at once,” he said. 

Moon dropped on her knees at his feet and burst into 
tears. 


ii 

On a fine spring evening, Sleeping Thunder sat with 
Hector outside the teepee. 

The chief, by this time, was fully restored to health. 

“In a few days,” he said wistfully, “I return to the 
reserve. The agent has sent for me.” 

“You should never have left it,” Hector reproved him. 
“You know the law.” 

“Did the law save me and mine ?” the old chief countered. 
“It could not have done for me what you have done.” 

Hector smiled quietly. He had given up trying to dis¬ 
illusion the Indian. 

“And that,” Sleeping Thunder resumed, “brings me to 
what I wish to say. Have patience. I am old and it is 
not easy for me to put my thoughts into words.” 

He gazed steadily out towards the West. The sun was 
sinking in as perfect a spring sky as Hector had ever seen. 
The wind rustled the long grass. A bird piped drowsily. 
A tethered horse stamped. All else was silence. 

The figure of Moon, busy round the cooking fire, stood 
black against the sunset. 

“My son, you may remember, long ago, when we were 
at the Sun Dance camp, I told you that the white man's 
ways are not our ways and one should not adopt the habits 
of the other.” 

“I remember,” Hector answered. 

“I have changed my mind. That is, I think sometimes 
the law may be set aside. I wish to set it aside now— 
today—or soon.” 

“Go on,” said Hector. 


On the Anvil 57 

“You saved my life. I owe it to you. I know it. No 
man can owe to another man anything more precious. Then 
how can he repay such a debt? In this manner only, my 
son—by offering him the thing he values most in all the 
world—values as highly as—perhaps more highly than— 
his life, by tendering it as a gift. So shall he repay the 
debt he owes.” 

Hector waited, wondering. The old man sat for a long 
while silent, his face very tender. 

“You see my daughter there—Moon-on-the-Water ? Is 
she not beautiful? She has the eyes of a young deer, her 
hair is like the sky at midnight, her form like a willow 
drooping by the river and, when she laughs, we hear the 
voices of the prairie winds. She is the daughter of a line 
of mighty warriors and the blood of many chiefs is in her 
veins. She loves me with all her heart—has she not proved 
it?—and I know that she would gladly die for me. She is 
a light among all women. Where will you find her like?” 

Hector, remembering her mellow voice, the mystery of 
her smile, the graceful swaying of her dress, answered, 

“Yes, she is beautiful. She loves you.” 

“She loves me—yes. And I?” The old chief’s voice 
trembled. Far off, through the stillness, faint and doleful, 
they heard the sound of a trumpet at Fort Walsh. “And 
I?—I hold her dearer than anything I possess. Many have 
wooed her, my son, and I have been offered much for her. 
Ten ponies, fifty rifles, have been offered me by more than 
one lover. She is worth twenty ponies—compared with 
other women! And so—you see how dear she is to me 
and how high the value young men have set upon her.” 

“Yes,” said Hector. 

“Then, to repay the debt I owe you with that which is 
most precious to my heart, I offer you my daughter Moon, 
to be your wife.” 

“Your daughter Moon?” 

“Yes.” • 

Sleeping Thunder glanced keenly at Hector. The white 
man was silent; and he could not understand it. 

“I know that I am pledging much. It is a great honour 


58 


Spirit-of-Iron 

I do you, my son.” Smiling, the chief stretched out a kindly 
hand and patted Hector’s shoulder. “But of all the world 
there is no man to whom I would more gladly give my 
daughter. You are a good man—strong, just, brave, true¬ 
hearted. And the debt I owe is great. Be not afraid.” 

The sunset glow was melting rapidly into the mauves and 
blues of night. Moon had stopped her work and Hector 
saw her gazing enraptured towards the West. The light 
was on her face and, in that moment, she was very beauti¬ 
ful. 

But an agony of pity and despair possessed him. 

“Sleeping Thunder,” he said at last, scarcely knowing 
what he said, “I know how you have honoured me. Beauti¬ 
ful though your daughter is, faithful and precious to you, 
you are wrong, my friend—yes, I say it—you do not owe 
your life to me. The Great Spirit is my witness I speak 
truth. No, do not disagree with me. My comrade, Murray, 
he who nursed you through the winter—saved you, not I. 
This gratitude is lavished over nothing. I value it more 
than I can say, but still I know it is so.” 

Struggling with his thoughts, he steeled himself to go on. 

“I cannot take this gift, Sleeping Thunder. I have not 
earned the right. I honour Moon, but—but—there is no 
love between us—not the love there should be between man 
and wife.” 

The old chief flinched and his grey head sank on his 
breast. 

“Then how could good come of such a union? We do 
not love; and even if we did, your words were truth, Sleep¬ 
ing Thunder. The red man’s ways are not our ways. How 
could she be happy in our life, among our people?” 

“There are squaw men among you.” 

Hector had foreseen the interruption. 

“Yes, but do they treat their wives as they should? You 
know they do not. They make slaves of them and when 
they are tired or they fall in love with a white woman, they 
cast them off. I could not do that and would not. But, 
aside from this, the girl would not be happy. My people— 
they would look on her with contempt. And as the years 


On the Anvil 59 

went by and cities came where the prairies are desolate 
today, life would become intolerable for her. You know 
that is true.” 

The chief’s head had fallen lower still. 

“It is true,” he whispered. 

“I would give my right hand rather than that this should 
have happened. It cannot be—you know it, Sleeping 
Thunder.” 

The old man raised his head suddenly and looked up at 
the towering young form. He smiled sadly. 

“It is true,” he answered. “I will say no more.” 

The night swallowed them. 

hi 

» 

Returning to Fort Walsh, Hector had time to grasp the 
full significance of the chief’s proposal. He had not even 
faintly foreseen that the old man’s gratitude would express 
itself in the form it had actually taken. Marriage was far 
from his thoughts. Moon? He was fond of Moon and 
admired her in many ways—but not in that way. He ad¬ 
mired and loved Sleeping Thunder. Hitherto relations be¬ 
tween them had been ideal. But this sudden rock had split 
them and emphasized the unalterable dififerences in race and 
life. He wished with all his soul that things could have 
remained as they were. 

Well, the thing was done and over! Only one course of 
action now remained for either party—to forget it all as soon 
as possible. 

But here he found himself mistaken. 

He had just come off duty on the afternoon when Sleeping 
Thunder was to start for the reserve when he was informed 
that an Indian was asking for him at the entrance to the fort. 

The Indian was Loud Gun, recently back from hospital. 

“How!” said Loud Gun, raising a hand in salute and look¬ 
ing down on Hector with his keen, proud eyes. 

“How!” returned Hector. “What do you want?” 

In a few words, the Indian explained. Moon-on-the- 


60 Spirit-of-Iron 

Water had sent him. Would Hector go with him and ask 
no questions? 

A few minutes later Hector was in the saddle. 

In a little coulee some distance short of Sleeping Thun¬ 
der’s camp, they came suddenly upon Moon. 

She was alone. In her richest dress, she made a striking 
picture—the picture of an ideal Indian princess—calm, 
strong, beautiful. They greeted her solemnly. As Hector 
dismounted, she turned to Loud Gun. 

“Go over the ridge there,” she said, “and wait till I come.” 

The tone was pitilessly cold. Loud Gun bowed his head 
submissively and departed without a word. 

They were alone, the Indian woman and the white man, 
face to face. 

Moon began. 

“You wonder why I sent for you? Perhaps you think I 
step beyond the rights of squaws?” 

Something of her dignity was gone. She smiled wistfully. 

“I do wonder why you sent for me, Moon,” responded 
Hector. “But that is all.” 

There was an awkward pause. 

“What is it?” Hector prompted. “Come, what is it, 
Moon?” 

She seemed dumb for a moment. Her head was turned 
away and her face hidden. 

“Is it about your father?” 

“Yes,” she answered swiftly, with a sudden straightening 
of her head. “It is about my father—my father—and—” 

“Nothing has happened?” 

“No. But this matter—I was saying—it is about my 
father—and—and you—and me!” 

He waited. She made a strange, gasping sound in her 
throat. He began to see a light. 

“Moon!” he exclaimed, alarmed. 

Her voice came thickly to him. 

“My father said he did it as an act of gratitude. You 
said—you said there was no love between us. He did not 
do it as an act of gratitude. He did it—” She dropped her 
hands suddenly and all her strength came to sustain her in 


On the Anvil 61 

that crisis. Her eyes were fearless. “He did it—because I 
wanted him to do it. You say there is no love between us.” 
Her voice was half a laugh, half a moan. “No love with 
you, perhaps—but love—great love for you —there is with 
me!” 

“No, Moon, no!” 

“Yes!”—a whisper now—a sob that choked her—“I love 
you, pony-soldier! Pity me! Pity me!” 

Amazement, deep concern, an overwhelming grief, swept 
over Hector. Why had she sent for him for this? 

His talk with Sleeping Thunder had been nothing beside 
the possibilities before him now. 

“Moon—”—he fought for words—was the soul of gentle¬ 
ness—“You are not yourself. This cannot be.” 

She wheeled suddenly, half turning her back. He saw 
her struggling fiercely with an emotion far more powerful 
than he had thought could move an Indian woman, least 
of all Moon. 

“I know! I know!” she began. Bitterness, an agony 
of injured pride, a would-be scornful disregard of the hu¬ 
miliation she was facing, blended in the words that tumbled 
from her lips. “I know! I know that I—a chief’s daughter 
—am not good enough for you. I know my love would 
bring you to contempt, would be a drag upon the wheels that 
take you on to greatness! I know that I would be a jest— 
a thing to scorn—a—a—” 

“Moon,” said Hector hotly, “that is not true! Why do 
you speak so of me?” 

She calmed herself with an effort. 

“It is not of you I speak,” she smiled, with a glance 
towards him. “You are too kind, too generous for that. 
You would not scorn me, think that I dishonoured you, con¬ 
sider me a hindrance—no!” Her burning passion mastered 
her again. “But all your world—the white man’s world— 
would do so. I am the daughter of a chief—I have said it— 
I am as good, in the eyes of the Great Spirit, as they are. 
I would be faithful to you and steadfast! I would work 
for you while life remained in me. But they would spit and 
laugh at me and call you ‘fool’ because you married me! 


62 Spirit-of-Iron 

Your white world—your white men—ah, and your white 
women, your white women!—they would do that. And why ? 
Why?” She rocked in anguish. “Just because I am an 
Indian—an Indian!” 

He could not answer her. 

She turned again towards him, terribly overwrought, 
clutching her breast. 

“That is true! You know it!” 

“Moon—please do not say these things.” 

“It is true—will you not admit it? Ah, you will not 
speak—that means you agree. Because you do not wish 
to hurt me, you will not speak—but you answer with your 
silence.” 

A long pause came. Hector wheeled and looked, unseeing, 
towards Fort Walsh. Waiting, he heard her fighting back 
to calmness. She brought herself at last to look at him. His 
cap was off, his profile cleanly cut against the strong sun¬ 
light, his hair ruffled by the soft wind and his scarlet tunic 
was like a flame to her senses. Her love for him welled up 
like a strong, deep tide in her desolate heart, mastering her. 

“Yet I must face the degradation,” she said suddenly, vast 
tenderness giving a pleading beauty to her voice, “because 
I love you—I cannot help myself. If I might be your wife 
—Oh, then I would laugh at all the cruel contempt that poor 
Indians like me have ever known! But if that cannot be— 
then let me be your servant and slave. Only to see you, to 
give my life to your service!” 

“Moon,” he declared, “I will hear no more. I will not 
have you speak like this to me!” 

“Oh, do not think to save me from shame.” She laughed 
bitterly. “Already I—the daughter of a chief—have broken 
the laws of my people in telling you my love. I will be an 
outcast. The sin is on my head. Then let me speak and 
beg that I may be your slave. I could keep silent no longer. 
Long have I loved you. You would not hear my father. 
But I cannot bear to give you up. So I sent for you. And 
all I ask from you is pity—pity! As for the scorn of my 
people and yours—I do not care!” 


On the Anvil 63 

Her passion died away, exhausted, in a little while. And 
he took her hand and answered her. 

“Listen, Moon,” he said. “No-one will ever know that 
this has passed between us. There is no shame in this for 
you. I hold you too highly ever to grant this prayer of 
yours. It is not right. Your father said that white men 
and red cannot live together as man and wife in happiness. 
There are many Indian warriors, good men, brave and true, 
who love you. There is Loud Gun—” 

“I do not love him!” she flashed. 

“There is Loud Gun,” he repeated remorselessly. “He 
loves you. Marry him—and forget me. I will always be 
your friend, Moon—” 

“I cannot forget you. I love you,” she persisted. 

He shook his head. 

“You must. Be sure, you will be happy with him. We 
must not meet again.” 

“Pity me!” she whispered. 

He turned blindly and heedlessly to his horse. 

“Pity me!” she almost shrieked. 

But he was mounted now. And, as she flung out a des¬ 
perate hand, he touched his horse with the spur. 

He heard her wailing, Indian fashion, behind him—forced 
his mount to a fast gallop—faster, faster, to drown that 
dreadful sound in the rush of wind. 

Weak tears blinded him. 

So he left her. 


IV 

Before another day had passed over Fort Walsh, Hector 
had pondered the situation regarding Moon and come to 
certain conclusions. First of all, he must obviously see no 
more of the girl. Secondly, he must do something to repair 
the damage he had innocently caused. Here he ran into 
a stone wall. How was he to influence Moon without seeing 
her himself ? In whom could he confide his difficulties, 
knowing that they would meet with sympathy? Was there 
anyone he knew with the necessary authority among the 


64 Spirit-of-Iron 

Indians, whose words carried weight and whom they loved 
and trusted? 

A battering-ram appeared suddenly from nowhere and 
smashed the barrier down. 

His man was Father Duval. 

Father Duval and his work were equally well known to 
every man in the Police or out. None could say how long 
he had been in the North-West but only that he seemed as 
much a part of the country, as strong and staunch and vital 
and even as eternal as the Rockies. He had made one at 
the first Christmas celebration of the Force at Fort Macleod 
six years before and at that time was alleged to have already 
passed the greater part of his life as a missionary among 
the tribes in the district. His influence with the Indians, 
converts and otherwise, was illimitable. They regarded him 
as their spiritual and temporal parent and went to him for 
counsel in every predicament. His face was as familiar to 
them as those of their greatest chiefs, his black-robed figure 
as common to their camps as a travois or a teepee. The 
Police recognized him as a useful medium for dealing with 
the Indians in matters requiring great diplomacy. He was 
the cheerful, tireless go-between for white man and red, the 
friend of every Indian, settler and Mounted Policeman. 

Father Duval was obviously the man. 

As soon as Hector could get away he sought the priest 
out, riding over to the mission. 

“Yes, he will see you,” said the lay-brother, lifting a cloud 
from Hector’s heart. 

At a knock, the door of the severe little room which was 
the priest’s sanctum was opened and the renowned Father 
Duval himself stood on the threshold, the kindliest and most 
lovable of men, his hand outstretched, a twinkling smile upon 
his rugged face. 

“Ah! Entrez, mon petit!” he exclaimed. “Parlez-vous 
francais?” 

Hector shook his head and faltered out a negative. Father 
Duval’s smile deepened and he shrugged his shoulders whim¬ 
sically. 

“Too bad, too bad! Teach yourself, mon petit. It ees 


65 


On the Anvil 

ver’ important to comprehen’ many lan-gwidges, oui. Eh 
bien! We try to—’ow ees it?—get along without it. Entres, 
cher ami, entrez!” 

By this time they had shaken hands. Hector jingled into 
the room, his uniform sounding a note of war in that haunt 
of peace. The contrast between them was very marked. 
The older man was like an old tower, strong in age, solid, 
the younger like a steel blade, keen, vivid, highly tempered. 
They sat down. 

Hector slowly, hesitatingly, began his story. Father 
Duval listened, one hand on his chin, the other in his sash, 
his eyes, possessed by just a shadow of encouragement, inces¬ 
santly fixed on Hector. 

When at last Hector ceased, the priest put out a hand and 
laid it over his, smiling so sympathetically that Hector knew 
him a friend and helper from that moment. 

“You—are you of our faith ?’’ he asked. 

Hector shook his head. 

“Mon enfant,” —his face seemed to light up with a holy 
radiance—“it does not matter. I bless you all de same. You 
’ave don’ right to come to me, Sergeant. All you ’ave don’ 
in dis affaire ’as been right. You ’ave acted as a man ov 
honour, oui, an’ wit’ such a beeg, beeg ’art. Ah, mon petit, 
le Bon Dieu, ’e smile, vraiment, when ’e look down on men 
lak’ you. Mes pauvres petits, de Indian, dey do not get 
ver’ much de consideration you ’ave give to dat ol’ chief 
an’ ’is leetle girl. Maintenant, regardezl ’Elp you—but of 
course— naturelment! Attendes une minute! I ’elp you, 
oui. For I am well acquaint’ wit’ dat leetle Moon an’ mon 
brave Sleeping Thunder. Only, ’ow ? ’Ow ? What to do ? 
Attendes! Attendes! 

Hector waited. 

“You say de name ov dat yo’ng fellow, it is—?” the priest 
queried suddenly. 

“Loud Gun,” said Hector. 

“Loud Gun? Oui. Bon! I ’ave it now. I feex it all. 
Regardes, mon petit. Don’t you worry no more. I will see 
dat poor leetle girl made ’appy, oui. She marry some good 


66 


Spirit-of-Iron 

Indian fellow—Loud Gun perhaps, perhaps some oder— 
but she will forget you an’ she will be ’appy, oui, vraiment, 
I will send you a leetle letter later on an’ tell you all about 
it. An’ now, don’ you be sad, leetle boy.” He patted Hector 
on the shoulder and beamed up into his eyes with beautiful 
benevolence. “So de poor Moon, she fall in lov’ wit’ you, 
eh?” he added softly. “Vraiment, Sergeant, I am not soo- 
prise’! A fine beeg fellow—an’ ver’ ’an’some, oui. Now, 
go— allez, mon petit! Forget all dis—an’ I write to you. 
It all come out right soon—you see!” 

“God bless you, father!” Hector exclaimed. 

His spirits had leaped as high as heaven. 

v 

“Here’s a letter, Hec’,” said MacFarlane, three months 
later. “An In’jun brought it. You’re a devil for the In’juns, 
Hec’, old boy!” 

Hector took the letter curiously. No Indians were in his 
mind. 

The letter was from Father Duval. Some English lay- 
brother had written it but the priest’s unmistakable signature 
brought it to a close. 

‘Dear Sergeant Adair: 

Don’t fear. She is happy. I have married her myself, 
today, at my mission here, to Loud Gun. I promise you, 
her heart is mended! She is happy. 

I am always your friend, 

Francois M. Duval, O. M. I.’ 

Slowly Hector read the letter, as slowly tore it into little 
pieces—as one who tears something that is past and done 
with—and, going to the open window, let the pieces fly from 
his fingers in the prairie breeze. . . . 

“You’re a devil for th’ In’juns, Hec’,” MacFarlane re¬ 
peated. 


On the Anvil 


67 


The sweet face of Moon drifted momentarily before 
Hector’s eyes, in the wake of the scraps of paper—fading, 
at last, like them—a something done with— 

‘‘You’ve got a soft spot for ’em, haven’t you, eh?” Mac- 
Farlane persisted. 

“Yes,” said Hector. 


A 


i 


Chapter VI 


x 

Old problems were disappearing now in the North-West 
Territories, new problems cropping up, old crimes and crim¬ 
inals dying away, new crimes and criminals upon the in¬ 
crease. During the two years which had passed since Hector 
first met Moon, he had been constantly dealing with these 
matters, old and new, under desperate conditions. Sheer 
bull-dog grinding in the face of gigantic difficulties; days 
and weeks of ceaseless exposure to the cruel cold of mid¬ 
winter, the fierce heat of midsummer, drenching rain, stab¬ 
bing blizzard, rivers in flood-time, trails knee-deep in mud; 
innumerable arrests, when, single-handed he dragged the 
wanted man, fighting like a mad dog, from under the very 
wings of Death, in the face of regiments of carbines; other 
arrests, quiet, subtle, efficient; cases which took inexhausti¬ 
ble patience to bring to a conclusion; cases which leaped 
from nowhere, demanding instant decision and unhesitating 
action; and all these cases and arrests, trackings, traps and 
desperate fights requiring at one time or another, the tip-top 
pitch of courage, zeal, determination and diplomacy—these 
things had been Hector’s life in those stirring years. 

The whiskey-smugglers, haling their stuff across the bor¬ 
der for the consumption of Indians and whites, still occupied 
much of his attention. These were old hands, dealing in old 
crimes. The worst of the new enemies of the law were the 
cattle-rustlers, who came in with the ranching industry. 
Some were whites, most were Indians. 

Hector had gradually come to the conclusion that—in the 
Macleod district at least—the whiskey-runners and cattle- 
rustlers were operating hand in glove from some central 
headquarters. Some clever criminal, or group thereof, had 
organized the two activities into one gigantic business. So 

68 


On the Anvil 69 

far he kept these suspicions to himself, because he had not 
yet enough evidence to lay before the Inspector. In the 
meantime, he worked away steadily and in the working 
gained a reputation for physical strength, courage, deter¬ 
mination and a high sense of duty among the officers and 
men, the settlers and the Indians which was worth far more 
than any King’s ransom. 

In the autumn following the receipt of Father Duval’s 
letter he was re-transferred to Fort Macleod. There oc¬ 
curred an incident which nearly wrecked his reputation for 
all time. 


ii 

“We’ve got a shipment here for you, Sergeant Adair,” 
announced Randall, the keeper of the Weatherton Company’s 
store at Fort Macleod. Hector walked over to the counter 
through the crowd of Indians, settlers and policemen. 

The trader, when he reached him, was busy with a cus¬ 
tomer and Hector had to wait. He passed the time in talking 
to Welland, who was lounging at his elbow—Mr. Joseph 
Welland now, keener, sprucer, more cordial and certainly 
more prosperous than ever. 

“Well, Hec’—how’s the whiskey-running? Putting it 
down any?” Welland began, while he carelessly picked his 
teeth with a bit of match. 

The question was delivered in a low tone, implying caution. 

“So-so,” Hector replied vaguely. 

Experience had taught him to trust nobody. 

“But they’re a cunning crowd behind it,” he added. 

“So they are,” Welland agreed emphatically. “Not a 
doubt of it. That bunch in the Calgary country, now—” 

“Is there a bunch working in the Calgary country?” asked 
Hector innocently. 

“You know there is.” Welland twinkled. “Guileless 
angel, ain’t you? But, talking of whiskey—” 

“Talkin’ o’ whiskey, are yah?” The trader’s oily voice 
cut in suddenly. “You’ll be able to talk o’ whiskey for a 
long time, Sergeant, when you’ve signed this invoice!” 


70 Spirit-of-Iron 

He winked meaningly at Welland, whose face for one 
moment betrayed surprise, then became intensely vigilant. 

“What’s this? What’s this?” he exclaimed, half in jest, 
half in earnest, while his eyes flashed swiftly to the invoice. 

Hector read and signed the piece of paper, which told 
him that Mr. John Adair, of Blenheim County, Ont., had 
recently shipped to him through Weatherton’s chain of 
stores, evidently as a Christmas gift, one case of Scotch 
whiskey. 

“Well, I’m shot!” Welland remarked. “I’ll come an’ see 
you when you’ve opened it, Hec’. How’ll you get it into 
barracks ?” 

The last demand, with its veiled insinuation, irritated 
Hector. But he snubbed Welland by showing no concern. 

“Bring it to my quarters next time you’re over that way, 
Randall,” he told the store-keeper. 

“You’re on, Sergeant,” Randall leered, rolling his bleary 
eyes. “An’ I hope to drink your health.” 

“You’ll do it in water, then,” Hector said quietly. “This 
whiskey goes to Mother Earth and no-one else.” 

“Wha-a-t?” Welland cried, amazed. “You’re not—?” 

“Yes, I am.” Hector gathered up his whip and gloves. 
“I’m going to spill the lot of it, in Randall’s presence, too. 
Nobody’s going to say I’m a wholesale drinker myself and 
down on everyone else drinking.” 

“But Hec’! It came in a perfectly honest, legal way—” 

“Can’t help that. Shouldn’t have come at all. I can take 
a drink with others, on the square or in the mess. But I’m 
not going to stock it myself. I’ve got too many people 
ready to take a crack at me and I won’t run any chances.” 

“But Hec’, it’s a crime to waste—” 

“No!” said Hector, real determination in the negative. 

Welland drew back, defeated, shrugged his shoulders, and 
looked at the trader with a sneer. 

“Hell!” he exclaimed audibly. “ ’Course he wants it for 
himself. That goody-goody stuff is bluff. That’s the way 
with these zealots—no liquor, no! But that just applies to 
you —not me!” 


On the Anvil 71 

The tone surprised Hector. He had not expected this 
thrust from Welland. 

“Will you come over and see me get rid of that whiskey ?” 
he flashed. 

But Welland only laughed derisively. 

“Well, Randall will be witness enough,” Hector declared. 
“Think what you please, and be damned!” 

With that, he clanked fiercely out of the store. 

The trader exchanged glances with Welland, his florid 
face growing redder with suppressed delight. 

hi 

Though John had sent the whiskey in a perfectly legiti¬ 
mate way, Hector could not use it, for the reason that, to 
do his work properly, he must keep up his reputation as an 
incorruptible enemy of liquor. If he gave way, his enemies 
would certainly adopt the cynical attitude that Hector, being 
able to get whiskey for himself whenever he pleased, had 
nothing to gain by winking at the operations of those less 
fortunate and so was zealous where he would otherwise have 
been slack. A better course than destroying the whiskey 
would have been to ship it straight back to John in Welland’s 
presence; but Hector failed to think of this at the time. 

In the late afternoon, Randall drove his sleigh into 
barracks. 

“I got the case outside, Sergeant,” he said. “Will I bring 
it in ?” 

“No,” said Hector. “Dump it on the parade-ground.” 

Hector took an axe. They went out together. 

“Why, Sergeant!” exclaimed Randall, in great alarm. 
“Yah ain’t really goin’—? Ah, say, don’t, Sergeant, don’t! 
It’s a sinful waste o’ the gifts o’ Providence, Sergeant— 
Ah!” 

His voice rose to a shriek as Hector reduced the case to 
a pulp of splintered wood and broken glass. 

“Now you tell anyone who ever mentions it what I do 
to private stock, Randall,” said Hector, as he pitched the 


72 Spirit-of-Iron 

wreckage into the sleigh. “You understand. You’ve got 
to tell the truth. Savvy?” 

“A’right, Sergeant, a’right!” Randall shrank back in 
alarm. “But it’s an awful waste o’ good Scotch!” 

He drove off lamenting. 

Hector’s mistake had been in securing only one witness 
to the destruction of the whiskey. He was to pay for it 
later. 

IV 

Soon after this, Hector noticed a distinct falling off of 
the respectful regard held for him by the officers, the men, 
the civilians. They did not force the change upon him but 
they hinted at it in a thousand ways. 

At a loss for an explanation, he did the wisest thing pos¬ 
sible—ignored the change and went on his way in silence. 

One day came light, when Inspector Denton summoned 
him and revealed the truth in a private interview. 

“You sent for me, sir?” said Hector, entering the Inspec¬ 
tor’s sitting-room and saluting smartly. 

Inspector Denton was a big man, much inclined to fatness. 
He had a ruddy face eloquent of good living, a drooping, 
luxuriant moustache, and an eye-glass which he hardly ever 
used. Ignorant recruits, judging by appearances, took him 
for a brainless martinet. As a matter of fact, the strength 
of a lion, the heart of a Viking and the endurance of a 
grizzly were hidden beneath his deceptive exterior and when 
action demanded those who doubted it were rapidly disillu¬ 
sioned. 

The Inspector, as Hector entered, was seated by the stove, 
his tunic open, his feet in gaudy carpet slippers. 

“Ah, Adair!” exclaimed the Inspector. “Er—just close 
the door, will you ?” 

Hector obeyed. 

“I’ve been—ah—hearing tales about you, Adair,” the 
Inspector began, composedly. “I don’t like ’em. My advice 
is—er—if they’re true—stop! I find it difficult to believe 
’em, Adair. So I thought I’d talk it over quietly with you— 
er—alone.” 


On the Anvil 73 

‘Tales about you !’ Hector saw in a flash that the causes 
of the mysterious change were about to be revealed to him. 

“Very good, sir,” he said; and eagerly waited. 

“Are they true?” 

“I don’t know what they are, sir.” 

“You don’t, eh? Umph!” 

The Inspector pondered. Then he looked at Hector again. 

“Like me to tell you? Well—er—fact is, Adair, they say 
you’re doing a lot of secret drinking, on cases sent from the 
East an’ so on. Very foolish, Adair, if so. Must drink 
openly or not at all. Ah—makes your work in suppressing 
the traffic look so—so hypocritical, y’know—besides bringing 
the Force into disrepute. It’s rather hard to explain what 
I mean but—er—you understand, eh?” 

Hector’s face crimsoned with passion. 

“It’s a lie!” he rapped fiercely. And he told the Inspector 
everything. 

“I see!” said Denton thoughtfully. “I see! Well, we 
must kill this lie—er—immediately, Adair. It’s done you 
a lot of harm—shaken people’s confidence in you—er—con¬ 
siderably, very considerably. Even I was—er—a bit affected. 
Now let’s see. How can we kill it, eh? How can we 
kill it ?” 

“I’ll kill it, sir!” said Hector decidedly. “I’ll kill it, all 
right!” 

“Right you are, Adair! Good example, eh ? Even stricter 
attention to duty—if that were possible—eh? But no vio¬ 
lence. Anyway, that’s all about it, s’far as I’m concerned. 
Damn’ glad it wasn’t true, Adair. Er—settle it quietly, eh? 
Damn’ glad, Adair. Close the door, er—will you, when you 
go out?” 

So this was the cause of the change in feeling! Obviously, 
it was the work of Randall or Welland, who must at least 
have started the rumour, whatever their part in its subse¬ 
quent growth may have been! The story must be killed, 
the Inspector had said. Well, he would kill it, there and 
then! 

Conscious of his innocence, Hector, for the first time since 
joining the Police, lost that crowning attribute, self-control. 


74 Spirit-of-Iron 

On fire to avenge his honour, he left the Inspector’s and 
went rapidly over to Weatherton’s. 

v 

The door of the store was dashed open. Fifty startled 
men, settlers, constables, Indians and half-breeds, turned 
together towards it, leaving a lane to the counter. 

Sergeant Adair came in. They all knew him—but not 
this Sergeant Adair. The quiet, friendly yet sternly re¬ 
strained N. C. O. was gone and in his stead was a passionate 
giant, fists clenched, eyes like knives, lips set and cheeks 
aflame. 

A hush fell on the crowd. It remained for Joe Welland 
to break it. 

The rancher, in a big buffalo coat, was smoking a cigar at 
the counter. Turning with the rest, he looked at Hector 
coolly, though with genuine concern, and his voice cut evenly 
through the silence: 

“What’s the matter, Adair?” 

Hector gripped himself before replying. He was joyfully 
conscious of the presence of many of his friends, assembled, 
as if by preordainment, to witness his vindication. There 
was MacFarlane, staring open-mouthed; Sergeant-Major 
Whittaker, by the stove, motionless in the act of pulling on 
his gloves, alert as a bird; Jim Jackson, master of ceremonies 
at the first Christmas celebration at the fort years before, 
pausing as he buttoned his fur coat for the trail; Martin 
Brent, seated on a sack of flour, pipe in mouth, stoically 
viewing the proceedings; Cranbrook—Corporal Cranbrook 
now; and a dozen others. For a moment Hector marshalled 
his words. Then he stepped swiftly into the centre of the 
room, the silent crowd shrinking before him. 

“This is the matter!” he burst out furiously. “Which of 
you two started these lies about me— you —or you?” 

And he pointed an accusing finger, first at Welland, then 
at Randall. 

Deathly silence came again. Men looked at one another. 
Welland gaped. 


On the Anvil 


75 


“What d’you mean, Hec’? No-one’s- 




*(' 




“Oh, yes, they have! Someone’s been spreading tales 
that I’ve been getting secret whiskey from the East. Don’t 
deny it! I know positively the story’s gone ’round for 
weeks. Am I right, boys?—am I right?” 

He flung the appeal to the crowd. They growled assent. 
‘That’s right—that’s true.” 

‘Do you hear them ?” Hector cried. “There’s proof, isn’t 
it? Now, which of you two began it? You know, Welland, 
that I had a case sent unexpectedly from the East. Randall 
knows it. You know I said I was going to destroy it. 
Randall saw me smash it with an axe that same afternoon. 
Now, no one else in the world knew that whiskey had come 
to me! Then, which of you spread the story ? That’s what 
I want to know.” 

The crowd waited breathlessly. 

Welland calmly flicked the ash from his cigar and smiled. 

“Say, you can take this as straight,” he asserted. “I’ve 
said nothing. If anyone’s told any yarns, it’s Randall there, 
not me.” 

And he glanced with stern contempt at the store-keeper. 

Randall started, staring with alarm and consternation. 

“Well, say!” he shrilled. “For God’s sake, Welland-” 

“You shut up!” flashed Welland. Then, quietly, to Hec¬ 
tor : “That’s your man, Adair.” 

Hector turned quickly to the crowd. 

“Did this man start the rumour?” he demanded, pointing 
at Randall. j 

For a moment no-one answered. Fear of a tempest held’ 
them silent. 

‘Did he ?” 

‘I heard it first from him, Sergeant.” 

The voice, pleasant, careless but assured, was Cranbrook’s. 

That broke the spell. A chorus of “So did I,” “I did, 
too,” rolled solemnly through the crowd. 

Hector’s fury broke. 

MacFarlane raised a husky shout as a dozen bystanders 
threw themselves on Hector: 

“What’you going to do ? What’you going to do ?” 


4CI 






76 Spirit-of-Iron 

Jim Jackson rushed into action, shouting, “No, Adair— 
no!” 

Then came a babble: 

“Hold him! Hold him!” and a storm of curses- 

At the stove Whittaker still stood motionless but smiling 
quietly- 

And Hector burst out of the crowd like a lion from a 
thicket of spears, grim, silent, deadly. He tossed Jackson 
and MacFarlane aside with a great sweep of his arm—the 
powers of twenty men added to his own giant strength in 
that moment. The trader’s frenzied shriek, “Sergeant—for 
the love of Christ!” he did not heed at all. Seizing Randall 
in a grip that brought a scream to his lips, he dragged him 
swiftly across the counter. The scattered crowd closed in. 
Seeing them, he swung the trader like a flail through the 
air, dashing them off their feet. In the cleared space, he 
shook his victim as if he were a sawdust dummy. 

“You dog! You dog!” they heard him crying. 

Once more the crowd rushed, to save Hector from 
murder. 

“Get back, damn you! He’s mine!” Hector roared, pin¬ 
ning the maddened Randall against the counter and staving 
them off. 

“Say you’re a liar, you cur! You swine!” he gasped. 
“Say it or I’ll kill you— I’ll kill you -” 

“I am! I am!” sobbed Randall. “Sergeant—Sergeant-” 

“Let him go, Hec’! Let him go!” 

MacFarlane’s voice gave Hector back his sanity. But, 
^shifting his grip, he tossed the trader, screaming, above his 
head and held him there, his eyes roving furiously ’round 
the room. 

Then, taking ten great strides, he hurled him crashing but 
unhurt into a pile of hardware. 

“I could kill you!” was in his mind. But instead he said, 
“Lie there, you dog; lie there!” 

Ignoring the crowd utterly—it parted in his path with 
awed silence—he went to the door, flung it wide open. 

The crash of the heavy portal slamming to aroused the 
crowd to tumult. 






On the Anvil 


77 


VI 

Within twenty-four hours the whiskey rumour was as 
dead as a last year’s calendar and Hector was back upon his 
pedestal. 

Mention of his name thenceforward produced this invari¬ 
able comment: 

“Play straight with Adair. He’s an easy-goin’ bird, but a 
ring-tailed devil when he’s roused!” 


Chapter VII 


i 

Some weeks after the clash with Randall, the Chester 
affair occurred. 

Hector was in charge of the Police herd-camp a few miles 
from the fort. One morning the detachment shifted to a 
new site. Chester was a shy, retiring sort of youngster, 
newly joined. During the move Hector placed him in charge 
of the tools. As a result, the only axe was left behind. At 
dusk the loss was discovered and Hector sent the boy off to 
get it, promising to follow him and aid the search himself. 

Darkness fell while he was still some distance from his 
objective. He caught himself wondering why he did not 
meet Chester. Reassuring himself with the thought that 
the boy had perhaps encountered some unforeseen difficulty, 
he pushed on. But no sign of Chester greeted him. All 
about the old camp was lifeless and silent. 

Returning to camp as rapidly as possible, he hoped to find 
the missing man there before him. The cook’s anxious- 
enquiry disillusioned him: 

“Is that you, Chester? And have you got the axe?” 

“Turn out, the lot of you,” said Hector. “Chester’s lost.” 

Lanterns were lighted and the whole party made an ex¬ 
tended search on foot. The results were disappointing. The 
discovery of the axe added to their alarm. 

Hector reported the affair to Inspector Denton, at the 
fort, who promised to send out a large search party at dawn. 
To continue the hunt at night would have been futile. 

Next morning, in a little hollow as yet untouched by the 
wind, they found the first clue—a sprinkle of blood, among 
jumbled hoof-prints—and a wide cast revealed Chester’s hat 
in a clump of bushes. They searched the woods. More 
evidence of a foreboding character was then quickly gath- 

78 


On the Anvil 79 

ered and the reason why Chester’s horse had not returned 
was made clear. 

Hector himself found the horse. It had been led into the 
woods, tied to a tree and shot. 

And then they found Chester himself. The body was 
lying in the bottom of a deep ravine, where it had been 
thrown. The foulest of foul work had been done, for he 
had been shot in the back at short range. 

In the days and weeks that followed, they exhausted every 
resource, but the murder remained an unsolved mystery. 

ii 

“Beg pardon, sir,” said MacFarlane, waylaying Inspector 
Denton as he passed the guard-room. “The In’juns say 
they’ll talk now. And they want you, with the interpreter, 
sir, and Sergeant Adair.” 

The Inspector wheeled quickly. 

“Good! Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Is Brent back? Then 
send a man for ’em right away.” 

Twenty-four hours previously, Hector had carried out the 
arrest of a gang of Indian horse-thieves, accused of stealing 
stock from the ‘Lazy G,’ an ‘outfit’ in Montana. They had 
refused to talk, however, having apparently decided to say 
nothing whatever until the day of trial. Martin was away 
and the best linguists in the division had been able to pro¬ 
duce no effect. MacFarlane’s announcement relieved the 
Inspector’s mind considerably. 

When all four—the Inspector, Hector, Martin and Mac¬ 
Farlane—were assembled, they held a consultation outside 
the guard-room. 

“Why in—ah—heavens,” said the Inspector, “wouldn’t 
they talk before?” 

“Yes—what was the idea?” Hector agreed. “I made 
everything clear to them. But they wouldn’t speak a word.” 

Martin laughed. He knew the Indian mind better than 
any of them. 

“They got what chaplain call ‘guilty conscience,’ ” he 
declared. “One thing—they either ’fraid say a word, fear 


80 


Spirit-of-Iron 

give themselves away, or other thing—they think you have 
um for bigger job than horse-steal but you won’t let on. 
You bet your boots, that it! They either make confession 
or give some other feller away. That why they want me an’ 
Inspector. You see—damn quick.” 

To a number of a dozen, villainous-looking warriors every 
one of them, the Indians rose to their feet as the Inspector 
came in. A good deal of parleying then resulted in Bear 
Sitting Down, who was their leader, being elected to speak 
for them all. And Martin began. 

“Why did you not say what you have to say to Sergeant 
Adair ?” 

The Indian looked uncomfortable. 

“We would rather talk to you,” he said. 

“Well, what have you to say?” 

Bear Sitting Down glanced nervously ’round the room. 
The other Indians watched him intently. 

“Come,” Martin said in his most commanding voice. 
“Answer quickly. What have you to say?” 

Bear Sitting Down shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and 
at last exclaimed desperately, with the air of a man goaded 
to action: 

“We did not do it. We know we have been arrested on 
that account. But we had no hand in it.” 

“No hand in it ?” 

“No hand in it—none!” 

The spokesman’s companions seconded him with anxious 
monosyllables of approval. 

Martin’s keen eyes flickered. 

“Why didn’t you tell the Sergeant so when he arrested 
you?” he asked. 

“He told us he was arresting us for horse-stealing. But 
we know better. We have stolen horses, yes. But we had 
no hand in the killing of the pony-soldier.” 

Martin quivered like a dog on an unexpected scent. 
Otherwise, he betrayed no emotion. 

“You are known to have killed him,” he said calmly, “and 
you will all be hanged.” 

The shot in the dark flashed home. 


On the Anvil 81 

“No—no—no!” exclaimed Bear Sitting Down. The In¬ 
dian fear of the rope was evident in his face and he trembled 
in every limb. “You will not hang us if we tell you who 
killed him ?” 

“Not if you speak truth.” 

Inwardly, Martin was still completely puzzled, but he went 
on bluffing cleverly. 

“I will tell all,” said Bear Sitting Down. “The man who 
did it was Wild Horse. He came to us that night and he 
said, ‘I have killed one of the Shagalasha. I killed his horse 
also and I threw the body into the ravine.’ If you arrest 
Wild Horse, you will find that this is so.” 

The mystery solved—at last! 

Martin turned swiftly to the other Indians. 

“Is this true?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes!” they answered eagerly. “It is true—true!” 

“Come ’long outside,” said Martin to the Inspector, with 
as much excitement as it was possible for him to show at 
anv time. 

“That feller,” Martin declared very impressively, “He 
think you lie, Sergeant. He think you take him up, not for 
horse-steal—just bluff, that—though he say it true he steal 
horses, but for murder Constable Chester last spring. An’ 
he say—all say—did not murder Chester. ‘You no hang me 
if I tell who did it?’ he ask. ‘No hang you,’ I say. ‘Then,’ 
he say, ‘I tell you. Wild Horse kill him!’ ” 

hi 

A fortnight elapsed before Hector was able to attempt 
the arrest of Wild Horse. The Indian had taken alarm with 
the apprehension of the horse-thieves and had left the re¬ 
serve. Sooner or later, Hector knew, he would return, 
thinking the storm blown over. It behooved the Police to 
be ready to take him when that time came. They placed 
the reserve under the observation of Liver-eating John, a 
half-breed scout, whose orders were immediately to report 
to Hector any news concerning the whereabouts of Wild 
Horse. 


82 


Spirit-of-Iron 

So the fortnight dragged by. Then, in great haste, one 
afternoon, came Liver-eating John. 

“Wild Horse, he sneak in ’bout noon,” he told Hector. 
“Me see urn—self. He be there p’raps two days. Hide in 
brother’s lodge. Go, get him, quick!” 

Within fifteen minutes, Hector and his men were on the 
trail. 

Among those who had recently committed themselves to 
the baby business of ranching in Western Canada was 
Colonel Stern, a veteran of the Indian Mutiny and several 
other wars. Failing fortunes had driven him from the Army 
to seek a livelihood south of Fort Macleod. But, though his 
military service had ceased, his interest in all wearers of 
the Queen’s uniform was as bright as ever. He kept open 
house for all ranks of the Police and it was an understood 
thing that any redcoat passing that way, on duty or other¬ 
wise, was to stop off at Colonel Stern’s ranch. As the place 
stood on the edge of the reserve wherein Wild Horse was 
lurking, Hector headed for Colonel Stern’s as a matter of 
course. 

The Colonel—tall, gray-headed, hook-nosed, weather¬ 
beaten, with bushy brows, a heavy military moustache and 
eyes like rapiers—met them at the door as they loped into 
the yard at dusk, smiling a welcome and holding out his hand. 

“And how are you, Sergeant?” he asked. “Looking like 
a young stallion, as usual. I’m not going to ask what brings 
you here, because that’s none of my business.” 

Hector took him aside, nevertheless, and explained. 

“I see.” the Colonel commented. “Well, it’s too late to 
catch him tonight, Adair. He’d surely get away in the dark. 
Besides, there’s a storm coming up. It will be a wet night— 
no night for lying in the open. Catch ’em at dawn—that’s 
sound tactics. They won’t be stirring then, especially with 
the rain coming down, and you can take the whole camp by 
surprise. Come along—supper now, stay here tonight and 
you’ll be fit for anything in the morning.” 

It was raining, as the Colonel had prophesied, when they 
turned out, a thin, penetrating, all-day drizzle, and the sky, 
just lightening, was heavy with an unbroken pall of dense 


On the Anvil 83 

grey cloud. Such weather, all in all, was admirable for 
their purpose. Half an hour’s careful scouting brought 
them within sight of the teepees they sought—a ghostly 
group in the wet desolation. The question was—in which 
lodge was Wild Horse? 

At this moment, they found an Indian boy, who willingly 
pointed out the teepee occupied by The Gopher, headman 
of the band. In order to comply with the custom of the 
Police it was necessary that Hector should inform The 
Gopher of his intentions. 

The Gopher was instantly at the door when Hector sent 
the small boy into the teepee to awaken him. Speaking the 
Indian’s own tongue, Hector rapidly explained his mission 
and was relieved to find that the Gopher, far from offering 
any objection, took the matter philosophically and himself 
pointed out the lodge in which Wild Horse was hiding. 

“Keep everyone in their teepees,” Hector went on, “until 
we go. Then there will be small likelihood of trouble.” 

The Gopher agreed. Hector ordered the constable with 
the horses up to a position close to Wild Horse’s lodge. 
The others he placed one on each side, ready to seize the 
murderer should he attempt escape by crawling under the 
flap. For the last time, obedient to one of the greatest 
principles of the Mounted Police, he cautioned the men on 
no account to draw their revolvers. Then, removing his 
great-coat, he boldly entered the teepee alone. 

For a moment unable to see anything, he shortly became 
aware of the presence of at least a dozen Indians, who sat 
up in their blankets and stared at him anxiously. 

“What do you want?” one of them asked, bristling defi¬ 
ance. 

Hector pushed back the door of the lodge still further. 
The cold light, streaming in, clearly revealed his uniform. 

“I have come for Wild Horse,” he answered. 

The wanted Indian glared shiftily at the speaker over the 
edge of his blanket. 

“You hear me, Wild Horse?” Hector queried. “I say 
I have come for you. You know what that means. I am 
waiting.” 


84 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“I will not come,” answered Wild Horse. 

'‘What do you mean?” said Hector sternly. 

The Indians had learned to dread that tone. They stirred 
uneasily. 

“I will not come!” repeated Wild Horse. 

The others broke into a loud murmur of applause. Some 
of the bolder threw off their blankets and reached for their 
rifles. Hector caught the sound of angry voices at his 
back. A hostile crowd was gathering outside. The Gopher 
had failed, either through weakness or treachery, to maintain 
control. Hector remembered that they were only four white 
men among at least a hundred Indians. The least misstep, 
lack of tact or wavering in courage, might have fatal con¬ 
sequences. 

He fixed the murderer with penetrating eyes. 

“I say that you are to come,” he said. “Do not look so 
at me—I will not have it. And do not attempt to resist or it 
will be the worse for you.” 

In reply, Wild Horse bounded suddenly to his feet, a knife 
in his hand. The other Indians, muttering fierce threats, 
stood up behind him. A row of levelled rifles confronted 
Hector. 

“Get out of this lodge!” said Wild Horse. 

Instantly Hector closed. A wrench twisted the knife from 
the Indian’s hand. Seizing him, he exerted a supreme effort 
of his great strength, whirled him off his feet and threw 
him bodily out of the lodge. Before the murderer’s friends 
could pull a trigger, Hector was also outside. 

But it was ‘out of the frying-pan into the fire.’ 

A crowd apparently representing every grown man in 
camp, to say nothing of women and boys, was thickly clus¬ 
tered round the teepee. The men were all armed and many 
of them were actually covering the two constables. 

One glance revealed all this to Hector; another, that Wild 
Horse had been promptly and efficiently handcuffed by his 
men, who held the murderer between them. 

What now? 

“Take him out of this,” Hector ordered coolly. To the 
crowding Indians, he gave the stern command, “Stand back!” 


On the Anvil 85 

They answered with a wild yell and one overwhelming 
rush. 

In the furious struggle that resulted, only the intervening 
bodies of the nearest Indians prevented the policemen from 
being shot. To hang on to Wild Horse and to beat their 
assailants off without drawing a weapon—these two thoughts 
occupied Hector’s mind exclusively. He could trust his 
men—through it all, they clung to Wild Horse like grim 
death. Meanwhile, all three were knocked down a dozen 
times, trampled on, beaten with rifles, bitten, throttled, kicked. 
When opportunity offered, Hector gathered his failing breath 
and bellowed for The Gopher. 

‘‘Give us Wild Horse!” yelled the Indians, pulling and 
dragging at the policemen. “Let him go!” 

“He is our prisoner,” answered Hector. “Where is The 
Gopher?” 

So, like a football scrum, the three undaunted redcoats 
carried the crowd with them to the horses. The mob raved 
on. The crash of their carbines pierced the uproar. 

“Put up your gun, will you!” Hector bawled, as the 
constable in charge of the horses, a young fellow and in¬ 
experienced, drew his revolver. 

Then suddenly, at this crisis, came comparative quiet and 
The Gopher pushed his way forward. 

“Where have you been?” Hector demanded. “What do 
you mean by allowing this to go on?” 

The Gopher pretended not to hear. Instead, he bent his 
energies towards quelling the riot. Presently Hector found 
himself beside his horses, the prisoner and escort with him, 
the crowd, visibly subdued, falling back with lowered rifles 
and the shamefaced Gopher at his side. 

“They know they’ve done a serious thing,” Hector thought. 

His troubles were obviously over. What plain men call 
sheer ‘guts’ had carried the day, as they so often do—as, 
with savages, they always do. 

Hector struck while the iron was hot. 

“Now that you have recovered your senses,” he said to 
the hangdog assembly, “I have a word to say to you. You 
have committed a grave crime. You have tried to stop the 


86 


Spirit-of-Iron 

arrest of one of your number by a Mounted Policeman. 
That is wrong, as you know. And it is also quite useless. 
You see that we are not afraid of you. When the Mounted 
Police come for any man, white or red, he has got to come, 
and we will see that he does come, let a thousand rifles 
come between. Wild Horse will get a fair trial, you know 
that. As for you,” here he turned to The Gopher, who 
hung his head, “you have disgraced yourself. Instead of 
helping us with your authority, you stood aside. The 
Mounted Police have always treated you well—and this is 
how you repay us! You are unworthy of your trust. Is 
it not so?” 

“It is so,” The Gopher muttered sullenly. 

“If you have any explanation to make, you must come to 
Fort Macleod. And let us have no more of this because, 
I tell you again, when the Mounted Police come for any 
man, he has got to come and it is no use resisting.” 

A moment later, with Wild Horse between them, Hector 
and his little party rode slowly out of the camp. In recog¬ 
nition of their superior authority, courage and determina¬ 
tion, the Indians fell back before them as they passed, lower¬ 
ing their rifles with a gesture that was a salute. 

iv 

On the night following the lodgment of Wild Horse in 
the cells at Fort Macleod, Hector was called hurriedly to 
Inspector Denton’s quarters. 

Three men occupied the Inspector’s parlour when Hector 
got there—Wild Horse, Martin and Denton himself. The 
air was tense with drama and breathed secrecy. The win¬ 
dows had been carefully screened and the key-hole blocked 
with paper, measures insisted on by Wild Horse, who was 
in deadly fear of spies or eavesdroppers. The lamp had 
also been turned down and placed out of the direct line of 
the windows. The dim light remaining fell on the faces of 
the men around the table with an unearthly glow. All in 
all, the place might well have been a noisome den devoted 


On the Anvil 87 

to the most fearful crimes and its occupants conspirators of 
the deepest dye. 

“That you, Adair?” The reassuring voice of the In¬ 
spector greeted Hector. “Right. This may be a—er—long 
business, so you’d better sit down. Now, Martin, tell him 
to go ahead—slowly. I can understand him myself then.” 

“What have you to say?” demanded Martin, using the 
Indian’s own language and speaking w r ith the severity he 
always adopted toward redskin criminals. 

Wild Horse glanced fearfully round the room and finally 
broke silence in a voice little louder than a whisper. He 
spoke very rapidly. The Inspector attempted to stem the 
tide with an indignant “Go slow! Dash it, go slow!” but the 
Indian paid no heed and even Martin raised a hand to 
silence his superior. Wild Horse ceased at last. 

“Well, what’s he say?” the Inspector enquired. 

“He want to know,” Martin replied, “if he tell all trut’, we 
no’ string him up. He want to know, if he give way man 
who got him shoot Chester, we save him from that man. 
We promise and he say he talk. We no promise, then he 
no talk.” 

The Inspector entered into a long explanation of the laws 
governing evidence and trial, admonishing Wild Horse, for 
his own good, to talk. 

Followed a vehement discussion between Martin and the 
murderer, which Martin finally boiled down to one brief 
statement: 

“He no’ like talk. He ver’ much afraid white man.” 

“Tell him the whole Force will protect him if necessary.” 

More vehement discussion; then Martin said: 

“Good! He talk.” 

Bit by bit, with many frightened starts and pauses, Wild 
Horse unfolded the truth. Thanks to the hesitating manner 
of the telling. Hector followed it with comparative ease, 
first with interest, then with incredulity, rising step by step 
to understanding, conviction and certainty. Here was new 
light on dark places, here, in a few moments, the perplexities 
of years were made plain. 

Said Wild Horse: 


88 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“I did kill the pony-soldier found dead in the ravine last 
spring. But I was bribed to do it by a white man; and 
I was mad with fire-water. This white man, he used often 
to give me that poison. He knew I had broken the law 
several times and would never dare to betray him, so he 
gave it me without fear, not only for myself but for others. 
I would carry it into camp in all sorts of ways—many gallons 
of it. We would pay him for it with buffalo-robes and 
other pelts, even with stolen horses and cattle. He never 
gave the whiskey to anyone but me, as far as I know. He 
made sure that he would not be betrayed in that manner. 
He is cunning as a wolf. And I have made him rich. 

“Well, one day he sent for me and gave me a lot of 
fire-water and he told me he would give me lots more if 
I would do something for him. And he added, if I would 
not it would be the worse for me. So I said I would obey 
him, because I was afraid. Then he told me I must kill 
this man, the Sergeant here.” 

And Wild Horse pointed straight at Hector. 

“I knew the Sergeant—have often seen him. I was afraid, 
so I said I would do it. I went to the herd-camp and hid 
all day under a tarpaulin. Just before the Police moved 
on to a new place, I heard the Sergeant tell one of the men 
he would go with them and come back later alone. So, 
when the Police were not looking, I crept out and hid in 
a good place near the trail. I waited till nearly dark. Then 
I saw a man coming along. I thought it was the Sergeant. 
Had he not said he was coming back alone? Besides, I 
could not see his face at that hour. I shot him dead. When 
I looked at him, I saw my mistake. But I put him on his 
horse and led him away; and the rest you know. Then 
I returned to my lodge. I wanted to hide in some other 
part of the country but I knew that if you found me absent 
you would suspect me. So I stayed there. The chinook 
wiped out all traces, so I had nothing to fear from that. 
And you did not suspect me. 

“I thought it was all forgotten. Then you came and 
arrested Bear Sitting Down and the rest. That made me 
afraid. I had foolishly told Bear Sitting Down what I had 


On the Anvil 89 

done, while still drunk, and I thought you had arrested 
him because of that and I feared he would betray me. So 
I ran away. When I thought it was safe I came back. 
And then the Sergeant came himself and took me. That 
is all. I would not have killed the young man if I had not 
been drunk and mad for more fire-water and in the power 
of that bad white man. I swear that is true. Now go you 
and arrest him. He-” 

“Yes?” said Martin, encouragingly. “Who is he?” 

Wild Horse described his master. 

“It’s Welland!” Hector exclaimed, “Joe Welland!” 

v 

There was no question of it. The man who had bribed 
Wild Horse to attempt Hector’s murder was Welland. 

“Why, it’s impossible!” Inspector Denton declared, when 
Hector explained. “Welland? He’s one of the—ah— 
wealthiest, most influential, most respected men in the coun¬ 
try. He would have no object-” 

Hector shook his head. The time had come for him to 
unmask the man he had long suspected but against whom 
he had hitherto been unable to amass enough evidence. Wild 
Horse had pieced the puzzle together for him. 

“I’ll tell you what I think of Joe Welland, sir!” he said 
tersely. “He’s the biggest horse-thief, cattle-rustler and 
whiskey-smuggler this side the boundary. Yes, sir,” as the 
Inspector voiced a mild protest, “that’s so. Oh, I’ve sus¬ 
pected him for a long, long time. We’ve tried to clear the 
district of those crimes, sir, and made some progress, too; 
and yet can’t completely stop it. Well, sir, some time ago 
it struck me that the reason why we weren’t able to stamp 
out the business was that it was being run from a central 
headquarters. This headquarters kept itself well informed 
of our movements, so that it could direct operations with 
the best chances of success. It kept itself well informed, 
with the result that, capture as many of its tools as we 
please, we could never nab the men on top. This pointed to 
careful organization, employing men over whom it had a 




90 


Spirit-of-Iron 

definite hold only and letting those men into no matter that 
did not directly concern them. The small men had no idea 
of the scope of the gang employing them, nor, in fact, any 
knowledge of the chief men, to say nothing of their own 
comrades. Each was just a cog in the machine, doing the 
little job assigned them. When arrested, they gave no evi¬ 
dence of value because they hadn’t any. So we just jailed 
them as men convicted of a small share in the big game and 
went on working in the dark as before.” 

“That sounds plausible,” the Inspector asserted, a little 
doubtfully “But—er—what about Welland?” 

“Why, sir,”—Hector was aflame now with the conviction 
that they were on the verge of a big thing—“we know how 
easily Welland became wealthy, apparently without effort. 
All sorts of evidence, too small to arrest him on but still 
damning, gradually brought me to suspect him. His herds 
of horses—new buildings—lands—where did they come 
from? The horses and cattle were stolen by gangs of In¬ 
dians and whites, who did not know they were working 
under that man but simply delivered them to men who in 
turn handed them over to him—men in his power. Selling 
these herds, he made money. But the greater amount by 
far was made from the sale of robes, horses and cattle re¬ 
ceived in exchange for whiskey run into the country by his 
organization. That’s how he got wealthy, I’m certain of 
it now. I could tell you a thousand little things that show 
why I suspect him, sir, but it would take a long time. Mean¬ 
while-” 

“Well, meanwhile—what?” 

“We have evidence enough from this Indian, sir. Welland 
bribed him to shoot me. Why? Because I’ve been too hot 
on the trail of his whiskey-runners for the past few years! 
He was afraid I might get too near soon, so he thought 
he’d better put me out of the way first. What more easy 
than to have this done by an Indian in his power—an Indian 
who wouldn’t dare to give him away if caught? That’s 
why he picked Wild Horse. If Wild Horse hadn’t made 
a mistake, I’d be dead now—and my suspicions with me! 



On the Anvil 91 

Look at the evidence we’ve against him, from Wild Horse 
alone, sir!” 

The Inspector pondered. 

“Er—about this idea that he was out to finish you, Adair. 
And—ah—about this organization of which he’s the—ah— 
chief. Can you give me an example of the sort of thing 
that made you suspicious?” 

Hector was ready for this. 

“Yes, I can, sir. You remember when I settled that 
whiskey story and—well, dealt with Randall, the man who 
started it?” 

A flicker of a smile played over the Inspector’s face. 

“Yes, I do,” he replied. 

“Well, it comes to me now that that was started to 
discredit me—perhaps to make you think I wasn’t to be 
trusted, sir, and get you to take me off the whiskey-runners 
altogether. If Welland is what I think he is, that’s just what 
he’d do. Now, Welland was the only man except Randall 
who knew that whiskey had been shipped to me. If he 
had power over Randall, he could make him circulate those 
yarns and take the blame later. Finding that the scheme 
wouldn’t work, he next thinks of putting me out for good 
by getting Wild Horse to shoot me. I’m certain if we get 
Randall here now, sir, and tell him we know part of the 
truth and want the rest, he’ll give it to us. Being in Wel¬ 
land’s power, as I believe, he’ll welcome a chance to knife 
him. Besides, he’s a coward, and will think more of saving 
his own skin than of anything else.” 

The Inspector was slowly but surely marshalling the facts 
and was almost finally convinced. 

“That’s an idea, too,” he declared. “But Welland’s al¬ 
ways been a good friend of ours, Adair. He s—ah—re¬ 
spected everywhere and-” 

“He’s made a fortune out of that sham respectability, sir,” 
Hector said. “His friendship was carefully planned from 
the time we first came in—I’m sure of that now. He was 
probably whiskey-trading as a side-line when we arrived 
and, instead of really welcoming us, he hated to see us 
come. After that he could only carry on with safety by 



92 


Spirit-of-Iron 

doing it secretly, while he played the friendly respectable 
on the surface. That tune went down well with the decent 
people in the country; and how were newcomers like our¬ 
selves to know him for what he really was? The only man 
who could possibly succeed at the head of the organization 
I’ve described, sir, was a man we all considered respectable— 
I saw that when I first became suspicious that such an or¬ 
ganization actually existed. Welland is thought to be one 
of the most respectable in the country, as you’ve said—and 
tonight what Wild Horse has said leaves me absolutely 
convinced.” 

The Inspector looked Hector in the eyes. 

“I believe you’re right!” he said. “Send out for Randall.” 

vi 

Hector’s estimate of Randall proved absolutely correct. 
He told them all he knew. 

“Ya’ve caught me with the goods, I guess,” he said, 
nervously twisting his big hands and rolling his bloodshot 
eyes, “so I may’s well ’fess up. But for God’s sake, don’t 
give me away to Welland. That feller, he’s a hound o’ 
hell, Mr. Denton. He beats that there squaw o’ his-” 

“Beats his squaw, Randall?” queried the Inspector, as¬ 
tonished. 

“Yessir, beats the hide off’n her. There ain’t many knows 
that but I know it—blast him ! An’ he’s-” 

“That’ll do. Get on with your story,” the Inspector said. 

“Well, sir, he come to me an’ he says, ‘You got to start a 
story against Adair,’ he says. ‘He’s been interferin’ a sight 
too much in my business lately—’ Hector flashed a trium¬ 
phant look to the Inspector, a look that plainly said ‘I told 
you so!’—‘an’ I want him broke. I want him ruined!’ he 
says. ‘That case o’ whiskey,’ he says, ‘that gives us what we 
want.’ Then he tells me I gotta tell everyone Sergeant Adair 
was as bad a whiskey-runner as any in the North-West, that 
he was gettin’ whiskey up reg’lar from th’ East—you know 
all about it, Sergeant! I wouldn’t ’a’ done it, I wouldn’t, 




On the Anvil 93 

Sergeant, that’s straight—but that human devil, he made 
me.” 

“He’s got you, too, eh?” the Inspector interjected. “What 
had you done, Randall—theft or murder?” 

“Eh? Eh?” Randall jerked, jaw dropping. 

The shaft had struck him fair and square. 

“It wasn’t anythin’ like that, Mr. Denton, I swear. 
That’s—” 

“Look here,” the Inspector rapped. “You’re lying! 
You’ll deny you’ve traded whiskey for him next!” 

“Whiskey?” Randall’s face was ghastly. “Mr. Denton, 
for God’s sake-” 

“I knew it!” the Inspector exclaimed remorselessly. 
“Hand in glove with that Indian there, too, I’ll bet!” 

Wild Horse jumped uneasily. Randall cast a frightened 
glance in that direction. 

“Ah, Inspector,” he cried, desperately. “No—I never 
seen that feller before. That’s Gospel true! I’ll admit I 
smuggled whiskey, but-” 

Hector cut him short. 

“You see, sir,” he said to Denton, “he’s one of the minor 
cogs in the machine. Wild Horse is another. Both work 
under Welland—neither knows the other from Adam!” 

The Inspector nodded. 

“Tell us what happened after your scandal-mongering 
failed,” he ordered. 

Randall hesitated—then made the plunge. 

“Well, sir, ’t was like this. Welland come to me one Sun¬ 
day, ’bout three weeks after Sergeant Adair treated me so 
rough. He reckoned the game had failed. Sergeant Adair 
was still workin’ on the whiskey business and was more of a 
hero than ever. Welland was rip-snortin’ mad—said he’d 
like to have Adair shot. ‘Adair ain’t done nothin’ to shoot 
him for,’ I says. ‘Oh, hasn’t he?’ says Welland, ‘He’s done 
more’n you think. Always pokin’ his nose into other people’s 
affairs.’ That’s all he said an’ he never mentioned Adair 
ag’in. He never said nothin’ to me ’bout usin’ Wild Horse 
to shoot the Sergeant. I never knowd nothin’ ’bout that.” 

“All right, Randall. We’ll believe you,” said the Inspec- 




94 


Spirit-of-Iron 

tor. “At any rate, Adair, he confirms Wild Horse’s state¬ 
ment to this extent—that Welland actually threatened to set¬ 
tle you. After the whiskey fiasco, he thought—ah—murder a 
better scheme than any. Taking all the evidence, Adair, 
we’ve got about enough to give him—ah—at least ten years. 
Frankly, I—ah—think you’ve landed the biggest fish and— 
er—uncovered the biggest thing you’ve come across since the 
Force started. This will cause a sensation! And—er—if 
you bring him in and he’s found guilty, I—ah—shouldn’t be 
at all surprised if it meant—ah—promotion. In the mean¬ 
time, we must collar him as quickly as possible. Think you’d 
better try the arrest? It might be—ah—rather risky, for 
you!” 

“That’s just why I want to do it, sir!” Hector declared, 
with all the emphasis possible. “This is a personal fight be¬ 
tween Welland and myself. He’s made it so; and I must 
see it through. Besides, he’s my meat, anyway. I trailed 
him. I showed him up. I must see it through. And I’d 
. rather do it single-handed, sir, if you don’t mind.” 

The Inspector leisurely filled his pipe. 

“I—er—appreciate your viewpoint, Sergeant,” he said at 
last. “By George, if any one should arrest him, it’s you! 
Where is he ?” 

“At home,” Randall interrupted. “I know, ’cos he went 
back there yesterday.” 

“Right. Handle it your own way, Adair. You’d better 
start at once, though there’s no particular hurry. You’re 
sure to catch him by surprise. But do as you please. It’s 
your hand.” 

“I won’t leave anything to chance, sir,” replied Hector. 
“I’ll start now” 

“Right.” The Inspector lighted his pipe at the lamp. “I’ll 
expect him within twenty-four hours. And, oh—as you 
pass the guard-room, tell ’em to send over an escort for two 
prisoners. What’s that, Randall? Why, of course you’re 
going behind the bars, too, my good man. You surely don’t 
imagine—Good luck—ah—to you, Adair.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

Hector saluted and was gone. 



On the Anvil 


95 


The Inspector had said there was ‘no particular hurry.’ 
Hector himself believed that there was ‘no particular hurry.’ 
Both were lamentably wrong. 

One of Welland’s spies had overheard every syllable of the 
discussion in the Inspector’s parlour and, before Hector had 
saddled up, had left Fort Macleod two good miles behind 
and was galloping hot-foot for Welland’s to warn him of 
his danger. 

VII 

On clearing the barracks and turning his horse into the 
trail to Welland’s ranch, sixty miles distant, Hector saw 
that the moon was rising among the scattered clouds above 
the distant foothills, and he studied his watch by its radi¬ 
ance: eight o’clock exactly. He planned to reach Welland’s 
before dawn. Setting a brisk pace, if all went well, he should 
have his enemy under arrest within six or seven hours. The 
trail was so clearly revealed that he could safely proceed at 
almost any speed. He settled down for the long ride. 

As he went, he found himself unable to put out of his 
mind the night’s startling revelations. Having long sus¬ 
pected Welland of whiskey-smuggling, horse-stealing and 
cattle-rustling, confirmation of these suspicions caused him 
no surprise. But that Welland had plotted his disgrace and 
afterwards his death came home with unexpected force. He 
saw now that, from the time when they first met, until that 
moment, Welland’s feelings towards him were nothing but 
sham, maintained for purposes of his own. Welland had 
recognized him long ago as a man who would probably be¬ 
come dangerous and had gone out of his way from the first 
to hoodwink him—to produce in Hector’s mind an impres¬ 
sion strongly favourable to himself. As with Hector, so with 
the Force generally, to a lesser degree, and so also with the 
civilians of the district. To discover that Welland’s friend¬ 
ship had always been false, that, while apparently well dis¬ 
posed toward him, the rancher had long been plotting against 
him and had actually attempted to murder him—this was a 
very bitter pill. 


96 


Spirit-of-Iron 

Running over various incidents, Hector, now that his eyes 
had been opened, could see traces of Welland’s deceit every¬ 
where. The warmth with which he had condemned all evil¬ 
doers and especially all whiskey-traders when he first came 
to Fort Macleod had been nothing but hypocrisy, to blind 
them to his own misdoings. The energy with which he had 
worked to make their first Christmas a success had been born, 
not of generous good feeling, but a selfish desire to increase 
his own popularity with the Force and thus lend further con¬ 
cealment to his real character. He had pushed Hector into 
prominence on that occasion simply to strengthen the latter’s 
good opinion. The interest he had always shown in Hector’s 
work—as when he enquired so tenderly after the progress 
he was making with the whiskey-runners when they met in 
Weatherton’s store—that, too, was a sham, an attempt to 
win useful information. One by one, Hector took these 
things from their dusty pigeon-holes, examined them in this 
new light and added them to the damning evidence he had col¬ 
lected against Welland. 

So much for that friendship! 

Other matters came back to him, bits of evidence of which 
he had just hinted to Inspector Denton. There was, for in¬ 
stance, the fright displayed by Welland when the party of 
Police arrived unexpectedly at his house on the way to ‘Red- 
hot’ Dan’s and asked for shelter. The rancher had been so 
startled that one might have almost fancied him anticipating 
arrest. And later, when he endeavored to scare them with 
wonderful stories of the desperate character of the wanted 
man—what was this but a sign that he was in league with 
the trader and desired to gain time to warn him and secure 
his escape into U. S. territory, while the Police returned to 
Fort Macleod for reinforcements? They had found ‘Red- 
hot’ Dan ready for them, even as it was, and Hector sus¬ 
pected, now, that Welland had obtained means at least to 
warn him in time to put up a resistance. Hector remem¬ 
bered the shrieks he had heard on the way to the Sun Dance 
and knew that Randall’s tale of Welland beating his squaw 
was true. It was then that Welland had shown him the 
buffalo skull used by the smugglers—an effort, that, to put 


On the Anvil 


97 


him off the scent. The man had been cunning as the devil; 
but not cunning enough. These things, together, betrayed 
him at last as a liar, a traitor, a brute, an arch-criminal. 

And it was with this man—no petty law-breaker but a foe- 
man worthy of his steel—that Hector had his quarrel. He 
was almost glad that such a man had chosen him as a special 
enemy, had in fact forced him to take up as a personal 
fight what otherwise would have been only a matter of duty. 
He leaped to meet the challenge. ‘This is a personal fight 
between Welland and myself,’ he had told the Inspector. 
‘He’s made it so; and I must see it through. Besides, he’s 
my meat, anyway. I trailed him. I showed him up. I must 
see it through. And I’d rather do it single-handed. . . 

The words came back to him as he rushed through the night 
and he looked forward, keen as mustard, to the moment 
which should bring them face to face, in the struggle which 
had been approaching year after year and was now at 
hand. . . . 

He was so absorbed in these pleasant anticipations that, 
in spite of the bright moonlight, he failed to notice a hole in 
the trail. His horse, half asleep, though cantering, was as 
blind as himself. Somersaulting heels over head, horse and 
rider fell. The horse stumbled wildly to its feet. But 
Hector lay stunned. 

And the spy ahead went galloping on. 

VIII 

At three o’clock in the morning Joe Welland woke from a 
sweet dream to find his squaw beside him. On the arrest of 
Wild Horse, he had sent Lizzie to Fort Macleod to watch and 
report developments. Her return was now sufficient evi¬ 
dence to tell him that something momentous had happened. 

A horrible fear swept over him and, sitting up in bed, 
he frantically ordered her to speak. 

In her halting English, Lizzie obeyed. Long a familiar 
and pathetic figure in barracks, no-one had suspected her and 
she had been able to maintain a close watch on Wild Horse’s 
prison. When she saw him brought to Inspector Denton’s 


98 Spirit-of-Iron 

quarters, she guessed that vital developments would follow. 
Going round to the Inspector’s kitchen, she begged for food. 
Mrs. Denton knew her quite well and thought her harmless. 
She gave her a seat in the kitchen and a bite of supper. 
Lizzie, when left for a moment alone, slipped into a hiding- 
place under the stairs, whence she overheard everything 
going on in the parlour. As soon as she learned that Ser¬ 
geant Adair was to start for Welland’s, she escaped from 
barracks unobserved, mounted her pony, which was tethered 
in a gully not far off, and had ridden over the sixty miles at 
the best speed possible. 

Then she gave the rancher full details of the conference. 

It was typical of Welland that he had no word of thanks 
for the woman who had dared and endured so much for his 
sake. Day in and day out, through the years, he had used 
her as a slave, working her to exhaustion and often flogging 
her. Yet, with the dumb devotion characteristic of the In¬ 
dian woman, she had borne it all, content to suffer his in¬ 
justice if only she might dedicate her life to him. And now, 
in his great need, when she might have left him to the fate 
he well deserved, when circumstances had offered her an 
opportunity for retribution, she had unhesitatingly done her 
best to save his wretched hide. Years of selfish brutality 
had made him incapable of gratitude for the greatest of 
services, and he would have regarded the sacrifice of her life 
for him as a matter of course. 

It did not take him long to see that flight was his only 
refuge. His day was done. The Police—represented, in his 
view, by Hector—had at last unmasked him, had gathered 
conclusive evidence against him and were at that very mo¬ 
ment on their way to take him. When they had him safely 
in jail, he realized, they would set about gathering more in¬ 
formation. With the Chester murder against him, it would 
be at least a life sentence. To attempt to bluff it out was 
madness. If the Police laid hands on him, he was doomed. 
The United States boundary was only a few miles away. 
Once on American soil, he could quickly hide himself so that 
not even the Yankees could find him. After that, he could 
begin life over again somewhere. This life, the life of Mr. 


On the Anvil 


99 


Joseph Welland, rancher—had crumbled to pieces round him 
and only instant action could save him from burial in the 
ruins. 

A man of quick decisions, his mind was at once made up. 
Jumping out of bed, he began to dress, throwing instructions 
at Lizzie the while. 

“And don’t make a noise, or I’ll kill you,” he adjured. 

Fear lent him swiftness and strength. Already, he fancied 
he heard Hector’s voice, summoning him to surrender. 
Hector! At thought of him, Welland was possessed with 
fury. To Hector, he knew, he owed his downfall. With 
infinite patience and cunning, beginning years before Hector’s 
arrival, the rancher had built up a criminal machine of 
amazing efficiency, a machine which had made him rich. He 
had hidden his own connection with the machine so cleverly 
that, as time went on, he began to consider himself absolutely 
safe. One by one his vassals were jailed but no evil con¬ 
sequences for himself resulted. He had taken good care, 
from the first, to see that they were men who knew it best to 
keep their mouths shut. So, to all the world, he had con¬ 
tinued to be Joseph Welland, most respectable of ranchers. 
The world might have lingered on in this illusion for Heaven 
knows how long, at least until the day when, made wealthy 
by the machine, he might have scrapped it and became truly 
respectable. That day, of late, had seemed near; and he 
looked forward to it, since, to do him justice, he was not a 
master-criminal for the love of it nor a secret associate with 
low-down whites and Indians for any love he bore them. 
That day had seemed near; and now, thanks to Hector, it 
was gone forever. 

It was no satisfaction to him at this moment to recall that 
from the first he had recognized the quiet, immensely keen 
young giant as a dangerous factor. But the knowledge that 
he had been unable to maintain Hector in ignorance of his 
real character, that he had failed to realize until too late that 
Hector was on his track, and that, when realization came, he 
had made so poor a job of his attempt to ‘settle’ him—this 
knowledge tortured him. 

Well, he would see to it that he was not taken by Ser- 


100 


Spirit-of-Iron 

geant Adair or any other Mounted Policeman! If he hur¬ 
ried, he might still get away to such a start that no-one could 
overtake him. But he must hurry. Hector could not have 
been far behind Lizzie in leaving Fort Macleod. 

The black horse stolen from ‘Lazy G’ was the best in the 
stable! He ran out into the moonlight to saddle him. 

IX 

Hector’s struggling return to consciousness ended when 
he felt something soft and warm against his hand and found 
his horse anxiously nuzzling him. For a minute or two he 
was powerless to think or move. The moon and stars went 
wheeling weirdly round and round, while a sticky stream 
coursed slowly down his cheek. Feeling horribly sick and 
weak, he yielded to an intense desire to sleep and closed his 
eyes again. 

Meanwhile, precious time was flying. 

From this condition he recovered with a start and a dawning 
sense that something important was hanging in the balance. 
His next thought was to get to his feet; but, when he tried 
to rise, agonizing pains shot through him, dragging a groan 
from his lips and forcing beads of sweat to his face. He sat 
up gasping, teeth clenched. The spasm past, he tried again, 
got to his knees, then, catching at the stirrup, dragged him¬ 
self slowly up and so at last to a standing position. Had he 
not had the saddle to cling to, he would certainly have fallen. 
As it was, he reeled drunkenly and only the dim knowledge 
that he must pull himself together gave him the power to 
hold on. 

So, as he hung there, everything came back to him. He 
remembered that he was on the trail to Welland’s to arrest 
the rancher. Then he saw that the saddle was twisted to one 
side and the oak cantle broken. The horse, too, was cut and 
grimy about the knees and blood had dried in its nostrils. 
Next he realized that his tunic had been ripped up the back 
and was hanging in shreds. His hat was gone, his face cov¬ 
ered with dirt, the clammy streams on his cheeks were blood, 
flowing from wounds in his forehead. Then he recollected 

. ( 

«'• : 
i v 
I < < 


On the Anvil 101 

the fall. The horse had apparently put its forefoot in a 
hole and turned a somersault. In the fall, pinned beneath the 
horse, he had been torn along the ground. Gradually he 
realized that had he not been exceptionally strong, he would 
have been killed by the fall, in which he had been dragged 
twenty feet. 

As things were he was in no condition to go on. Even the 
iron code of the Mounted Police had no quarrel with a man 
who yielded when in such a state as Hector found himself. 
But his first thought was for the business in hand. The moon 
was going down. His watch had stopped at three o’clock. 
Then probably he had lain there hours afterwards. In 
desperate haste, he set about making up for lost time. 

The whole secret of his reputation was revealed in that 
crisis. 

He was sick and sore and his brain was whirling like a 
top. Yet somehow he twisted the saddle back into its right¬ 
ful position, thanking God that his horse had remained 
faithfully beside him throughout, thus enabling him to com¬ 
plete his journey on horseback instead of on foot. Then he 
got somehow into the saddle, somehow started the horse and 
so, the reins twisted round his hands, while his fingers clung 
to the mane and he held on from hip to heel, urged gradually 
into a steady gallop. 

“Am I in time? Am I in time?” 

Drumming in his head with the beat of hoofs, that was the 
only thought he could retain. 

The rest of the ride was sheer torture, without dimensions 
of time or distance. The road staggered under him, the horse 
rocked, the moon, now almost out, did idiotic things. Every 
shooting pain, every bump, went through him with terrible 
violence, his desire to end this agony and get to grips with 
Welland became a consuming fire. 

“Am I in time? Am I in time?” 

More dead than alive, he pounded into Welland’s yard at 
last. Dawn was gilding the mountains. The shack showed 
only one feeble light. In a daze, biting back the cry of 
torment beating at his lips, he slid to the ground. 

Now! 


102 Spirit-of-Iron 

He opened the door cautiously. From Welland’s bed-room, 
the light burned dimly. Hector entered. 

At the entrance to the room, he found confusion every¬ 
where. A dark form crouched, moaning, in a corner. She 
looked up at him—Lizzie! The sight gave him a nasty 
shock, for he fancied her at Fort Macleod. 

Suddenly possessed of a vague uneasiness, he strode 
quickly in. Welland, acting on some strange freak, had left 
a message for him under the lamp on the table. He snatched 
it up and read: 

“You have won this time. But I will win yet. I owe you 
my ruin and, if it takes me twenty years, I’ll get even. Re¬ 
member, I’ll get even, if it takes me twenty years.” 

The threat was lost on Hector—at any other time he would 
have laughed at it. But now he turned swiftly to Lizzie. 

“Where is Joe?” he demanded. 

Surely, surely Welland had not escaped him, after all that 
had passed? 

“Where is Joe?” he repeated fiercely. 

Lizzie laughed in mad triumph. 

“He gone—hour ago! You no’ catch him. He over the 
medicine-line!” 

Hector rapped an inward oath of agony. White man— 
ghastly in the lamp-light, with pale, bloody face, and tattered 
scarlet—and Indian, they stared at each other. 


1 


\ 


book two : Spirit-of-Iron 


\ 













book two: Spirit-of-Iron 

Chapter I 

i 

Until comparatively recently, the destinies of nations de¬ 
pended mainly upon roads. A nation might be judged by 
the state of its roads. Civilization and Progress moved along 
good roads, bad roads were the symbols of Barbarism. 
Rome, the Imperial power of the ancient world, the greatest 
apostle of Civilization and Progress born before the Renais¬ 
sance, built the best roads ever made. 

For the past century the railway has been to nations and 
Empires what the road once was. 

Western Canada, marching under the wing of the Mounted 
Police, had by this time emerged from barbarism. A decade 
of strong government had done its work. Homesteads dotted 
the vastness of the plains, small islands in wide seas of grass. 
Little towns were rising up like magic at the forks of the 
long, lone trails. The country was slowly waking, like a 
young giant, from the sleep of untold centuries, awakening 
to a vague yet definite conception of its destiny. Faintly 
visioning its mighty future, it carefully took the measure of 
itself and looked around for what it lacked to fill its de¬ 
ficiencies. Where one homestead stood it knew there should 
be a hundred. Where little shack-towns rose, it knew there 
should be cities. The future held its promise of these things. 
But until the country’s crying need was filled, the future 
remained a promise—nothing more. 

The country’s crying need—what was it? 

The railway. 

And the railway was coming now. From Atlantic to 

105 


106 Spirit-of-Iron 

Pacific, one poem with an heroic theme was in the making— 
the epic of the Transcontinental. 

To the East, in this epic, belong the giants of vision, the 
planners, the intellectuals. The West saw only the men of 
action, the giants who did the bidding of the fathers of the 
dream, the surveyors, plate-layers, navvies, engineers. These 
men of action were organized like an army. Like an army, 
they had their officers, their N. C. O.s, their rank and file, 
their hangers-on and camp-followers. The men who super¬ 
vised—the construction-bosses, skilled engineers, managers 
of one thing or another—were the officers; the foremen and 
master-mechanics were the N. C. O.s; the lesser labourers— 
mostly called Dagoes—who laid the road-bed, dug ditches, 
carried sleepers, rails and fish-plates—were the rank and 
file; while the camp-followers and hangers-on—gamblers, 
whiskey-smugglers, robbers, cut-throats and lost women— 
were scum clean through. 

Though organized like an army—these people—they were 
actually a crowd. An army is distinguished from a crowd 
by its discipline. And they had very little discipline. It was 
necessary, for the good of the great work, that their unruly 
elements be kept in hand. As far as such men could be, 
they were kept in hand. And, through their labours—this 
fact will help them at the Day of Judgment—the great work 
marched steadily towards completion. Slowly but surely, 
the thin thread of steel pushed its way through the trackless 
wastes of rock and burnt-out timber north of the Great 
Lakes; thrust itself across mile after mile of sunlit plain; 
climbed step by step over the foothills and into the moun¬ 
tains; clambered along sheer precipices, sprang over dizzy 
gorges, bored through vast walls of granite; and, tracing 
always the pathway of the pioneers, pushed forward month 
by month in the wake of the setting sun. 

The crowd was kept in hand—partly by the iron rule of its 
chiefs but mainly through the unceasing vigilance of the 
Mounted Police, who soothed their discontent, caught their 
robbers, suppressed their gamblers, baffled their whiskey- 
smugglers and forestalled their murderers. 

The ‘end of track/ by this time, had reached Regina; and 


Spirit-of-Iron 107 

Hector was the senior N. C. O. of the Mounted Police on 
that division. 

When Sergeant-Major Whittaker, six months before, had 
left the Force to take up land in the North, his departure 
had left a great gap in J Division; but nobody had been sur¬ 
prised when Hector was called upon to fill it. 

He s one of our best N. C. O.s,” was the general com¬ 
ment. “Besides, he has the luck of the devil, anyway!” 

So Hector was now Sergeant-Major, at twenty-eight, and 
it was more than probable that before he was thirty he 
would easily realize his dream of a commission. There was 
no cloud on his horizon. He was very happy. 

For some time after Welland’s escape Hector had feared 
for his prospects. A criminal involved in innumerable 
crimes had slipped through his fingers; he thought the Big 
Chiefs would consider this inexcusable. Hector’s fall, which 
to some minds might have exonerated him, seemed to him to 
add to the disgrace. The result of sheer carelessness—so he 
considered it—that fall should never have happened to a 
Mounted Policeman; and he was certain the Big Chiefs 
would hold the same opinion. But when the Commissioner 
and Inspector Denton heard the details of his condition when, 
ragged, gory, white-faced and held up only by his indomitable 
will, he returned from Welland’s, and realized just what he 
had done, they acted as they thought best. Hector, after all, 
had unmasked the man—one of the most dangerous in the 
country—and at least driven him out by his own unaided 
effort. It was good riddance of bad rubbish; and Welland’s 
escape did him no harm. 

That was two years ago now and Hector had almost for¬ 
gotten the whole affair. Even Welland’s dramatic little 
note, with its vindictive threat, ‘I’ll get even, if it takes me 
twenty years’ he had contemptuously banished from his mind. 
And today he was Sergeant-Major of J Division, maintain¬ 
ing the law along one hundred miles of the line of construc¬ 
tion. 

The job carried very heavy responsibilities, which aged 
him daily—not physically but mentally. He had, where duty 
was concerned, the outlook of a man twice his age. He was 


108 Spirit-of-Iron 

the connecting-link between officers and men, his task to see 
that every order and regulation was obeyed. Besides these 
matters concerning the internal economy of the Force, he 
had also to deal direct with law-breakers. So he came in 
touch with all the vice, wretchedness and stark tragedy 
abounding in the tent-towns and construction camps. He 
knew all the thieves, ‘rollers,’ toughs, shell-game experts, 
whiskey-peddlers and ladies of doubtful reputation by sight 
and most of them by name. When the scarlet-coated patrols 
swooped down on crowded caboose or side-tracked box-car at 
dead of night to catch the drunks in full carouse, he was 
almost always in the offing. When a gambling-joint was 
raided, he led the rush. When, in pauses between dances, 
the dirty men and painted women at the little tables in the 
reeking dance-halls became suddenly silent to watch a lone 
man in uniform pass vigilantly among them, the lone man 
was generally Hector. 

In his turn, through all the seething, howling world whose 
axis was the railway, his was the most familiar figure. They 
knew him as the kindest and best-hearted of men to those 
who slipped through ignorance or foolishness, and, to those 
who slipped from choice, the most merciless; loved him or 
hated him, according to their lights; went out of their way 
to meet him or to avoid him; and feared him, one and all, 
far more than they feared God. 

ii 

In spite of all his responsibilities and hard work, Hector 
found opportunities to have a little harmless fun; as witness 
Mr. Augustus J. Perkins, gambler and whiskey-smuggler, 
temporarily resident in the mushroom city of Regina. 

Hector first spotted Mr. Perkins on the way to Ou’appelle, 
a few miles down the line, where Sergeant Cranbrook was 
stationed. His attention was drawn to Mr. Perkins because, 
firstly, the man’s face was unfamiliar, secondly, he was a 
book-agent. Book-agents were frequently seen along the 
line and Hector had learned to regard them all with sus¬ 
picion, as most of them adopted the profession to hide their 


109 


Spirit-of-Iron 

true identity, which was generally criminal. And Mr. Per¬ 
kins’ appearance was against him. He was a plump, ruddy, 
cheery soul and might have passed muster but for his eyes, 
which were shifty and bloodshot; also, his nose was red. 
His hands were pudgy, too, and covered with cheap rings. 
He wore a little bow-tie, a wide-awake hat, a vile flowered 
waistcoat, a Prince Albert, very baggy trousers and a daz¬ 
zling gold watch hung with many seals. His face was too 
good to be true and he studiously kept his eyes away from 
Hector. These things condemned him. 

‘Til try him out,” thought Hector. 

He approached Mr. Perkins, who greeted him with a con¬ 
vincing smile but was still unable to hide his aversion to 
Mounted Policemen. Hector noted the fact. 

“Nice day,” he began, sitting down opposite the book- 
agent. “Augustus J. Perkins, I presume ?” 

“Yes.” Then, doubtfully, “Le’s see now, where’d we 
meet before?” 

“It wasn’t in jail, was it?” Hector smiled. 

“Quit your jokin’,” Mr. Perkins returned, shifting un¬ 
easily. “Where was it, though ?” 

“I don’t know. I saw your name on your grip, if that’s 

what you mean?” 

“Oh, yas. Yas.” Followed a pause, Mr. Perkins evi¬ 
dently searching his whirling brain for something to say. 
“Have a cigar ?” 

“Thanks. I’ll smoke it later, when no-one’s around.” 

The book-agent lighted up. 

“How’s business?” Hector resumed. 

“Pretty good,” Mr. Perkins admitted. 

“Sold lots of stock?” 

“Oh, yas. Yas!” 

“I wonder if he’s foolin’ me?” Perkins was thinking. But 
Hector was perfectly serious. 

“I’m quite fond of reading myself,” said Hector. “You’ve 
a lot of books there. What have you?” 

The book-agent pondered. 

“I’ve got Scott, Thack’r’y, Dickens, an’—Dickens—an’ 


110 Spirit-of-Iron 

le’s see; the Waverley Novels, Shakespeare, Pickwick Pa¬ 
pers—that’s a new book, just out, by—by-” 

“Scott, isn’t it ?” Hector suggested. 

“Yas, Scott—tha’s right,” Mr. Perkins hastily affirmed. 
“Oh, an’ lots more.” 

“Good, I’d like to see one or two. Fetch down the big 
bag and let’s have a look at it.” 

The agent reached a hand to the rack, laying hold of a 
small bag. 

Hector did not let the action pass. 

“The big bag, I said,” he reminded the agent pleasantly. 
Perkins pretended not to hear. 

“The big bag,” Hector repeated. 

“Eh?” Mr. Perkins jerked suddenly. 

“I want to see the big bag.” 

The agent found his voice. 

“Hell, that’s my stock,” he protested. “My samples are in 
this.” 

And he pulled the small bag down. 

“All right, my buck,” Hector thought. “I understand.” 
They looked over the books together. 

“Well, you’ve a fine stock,” Hector asserted, after a time. 
“Now, I’ll tell you where to find me in Regina. Come up 
there when you’re next in town and I’ll buy twenty books 
from you.” 

“Say, that’s real white of you, Mr. Adair. An’ I’ll be 
there first chance.” 

Though he tried thereafter to pump Mr. Perkins, the 
book-agent would not be drawn. But he was well satisfied. 

“A smuggler and probably a gambler,” he thought. 
“He’ll never come within a mile of my quarters, of course. 
That’s a certainty. Never mind. We’ll land him.” 

They parted at Qu’appelle. Cranbrook was waiting for 
Hector, who pulled him under cover and pointed out Mr. 
Perkins, instructing him to keep an eye on the gambler. 

Together, they prepared a combined plan for the down¬ 
fall of Mr. Perkins. 

Returning to Regina that night, Hector delved into cer¬ 
tain records and finally unearthed data concerning a gambler 



Spirit-of-Iron 111 

answering closely to the description of the suspect. More¬ 
over, he was nicknamed ‘Artful Gussie.’ 

Hector advised Cranbrook of this discovery and passed 
word along the whole line setting detachments on their guard. 

In one week’s time they amassed sufficient evidence to 
arrest Mr. Perkins, and landed him behind the bars. 

hi 

The Press Association’s special train was speeding towards 
Qu’appelle, its whistle screaming, its noisy little engine pour¬ 
ing out long trails of sparks. From the windows of the cars 
were thrust serried rows of heads and strings of handker¬ 
chiefs. As they neared the little town, one lively young lady, 
wearing an especially smart hat and a particularly large 
bustle—her name was Nita Oswald and she represented a 
leading Eastern paper—gave voice to the sentiments of the 
company: 

“Oh, here’s another of these horrible holes! When are 
we going to meet the real ‘Wild West’ ? I’ve seen plenty of 
picturesque scenery and some lovely cut-throats. But I do 
want to see something truly romantic. Please send us some¬ 
thing romantic, O Lord!” 

And she rolled her very alluring eyes towards Heaven. 

Whereupon, suddenly, the prayer was answered. From 
the woods fringing either side of the line at some distance, 
came all at once a startling succession of blood-curdling 
yells. Everyone became galvanized to attention, with 
thoughts of Indian attacks and gory massacres. But they 
had no time to yield to their alarm. The first war-whoop 
was still echoing through the August woods when out burst 
two racing lines of horsemen in dazzling scarlet. They 
dashed across the intervening ground, swung to left or right 
with thrilling precision and so, at utmost speed, galloped 
alongside the train. 

“Oh, oh!” screamed the young lady with the bustle, “How 
lovely! A whole army of the Mounted Police!” 

The windows of the train grew clamorous, the handker¬ 
chiefs fluttered like frantic birds, the engine answered the 


112 Spirit-of-Iron 

continued yells of the flying horsemen with shriek on shriek. 
A trumpeter at the head of the troop stirred the watchers 
with a glorious ripple of music and the horse at the tail, 
wildly enthusiastic, put down its head and tore over the 
ground with terrific bucks but without lagging a yard behind 
or disturbing its impassive rider by the breadth of a feather. 
The gleaming scarlet and steel, the brilliant horsemanship, 
the dash and movement of the whole picture roused the 
journalists to mad applause. 

This was something like the West and no mistake about it! 

At Qu’appelle, a halt was made, and journalists and police¬ 
men fraternized. A group of admiring press-men offered 
respectful congratulations to the tall young Sergeant-Major 
who had argued with the horse. Attracted by the little 
crowd, a man on the platform of the nearest car came down 
and joined it. A moment later the journalists were thrust 
aside. 

“Hector!” 

And Hector, wheeling, gave joyous answer: 

“Hugh!” 

After that, of course, there was nothing for if but that 
Hector should hand over his horse to one of the men and to 
return to Regina with Hugh. This was easily arranged; 
and, while the train rattled on to the ‘end of track,’ Hector 
and Hugh enjoyed a splendid chat—the first in ten long 
years. 

There was naturally a tremendous lot to tell, but certain 
facts stood out. Hugh had been a journalist a long time 
now—Hector knew this already, having watched his career 
with a good deal of interest—and when the editor of his 
paper in Toronto looked for a man to send Westward with 
the Press Association, his choice had fallen upon Hugh. 
Why had he kept his coming secret? Oh, he wanted to 
give Hector a real surprise. 

“Well, you’ve done that, all right,” Hector declared. 
“You’re the first man from home I’ve seen since I came 
West, Hugh!” 

Speaking of home inevitably led to a cross-examination 


Spirit-of-Iron 113 

covering all the latest doings of Hector’s mother—Cousin 
John—Allen—and the others. Hugh, to satisfy Hector’s 
craving, described everything in detail. Then, suddenly, he 
was struck with an inspiration: 

“But look here, Hec’. You’ve earned a holiday, God 
knows. Why not come back with me and see it all for 
yourself ? I can’t possibly do it justice, you know. Now, 
Hec’!” 

The suggestion brought a light to Hector’s eyes. But 
presently he shook his head. 

“I can’t, Hugh,” he said. “We’re up to the neck just 
now. I can’t be spared. Don’t argue. There’s no-one to 
take my place.” 

“Oh, bosh!” laughed Hugh. “You’re not so darned im¬ 
portant. Of course they can spare you ! You’ve got swelled 
head, old boy.” 

Hector rapped him playfully. 

“Yes, haven’t I?” he replied. “Never mind—it can’t be 
done. No such word as ‘can’t’ in the Police vocabulary? 
There is, in this case!” 

Hugh thereafter exhausted his arguments. Hector was 
a Gibraltar. 

“Oh, tell us—who’s your C.O. ?” asked Hugh, at last. 

“Superintendent Denton. Why?” 

“Never mind,” said Hugh, abruptly changing the con¬ 
versation. And Hector forgot the matter. 

But, later on that day he was greeted with the dazzling 
information that Hugh, while Hector was absent a moment 
on duty, had seen the Superintendent and the latter had 
consented to allow Hector six weeks’ leave. 

“Six weeks’ leave, Hec’! Six weeks! Think of it! He 
didn’t say a word against it. Said, in fact, he’d been con¬ 
templating sending you, as ten years without leave was 
quite enough for any man. And when I told him you’d 
refused to ask for it and I was seeing him without your 
knowledge, he said it was just like you—that you had a 
wonderful sense of duty! What more can you want ? Isn’t 
that great?” 


114 Spirit-of-Iron 

‘‘Hugh!” said Hector. 

He was going home! 


IV 

News of all kinds runs swiftly through organized forma¬ 
tions and within an hour every man at headquarters, in¬ 
cluding the prisoners in the cells, knew that Hector was 
going East. 

While he was putting the finishing touches to his hurried 
preparations, the Sergeant in charge of the cells came to 
him. 

“Sergeant-Major, can you spare a moment ?” 

“Well?” 

“You know that gambler that’s awaiting trial—the fellow 
Sergeant Cranbrook arrested at Qu’appelle ?” 

Hector smiled. 

“Oh, yes—Perkins. What about him?” 

“He’s heard you’re going home, S.-M., and he wants to 
know if you’ll go and see him first.” 

“Eh ?” 

“Yes, that’s right.” 

Hector considered a moment. What could Perkins want ? 
It was not in him to refuse. 

“All right. I’ll be over in a little while.” 

When Hector entered the cell, the gambler greeted him 
with a cry of joy. 

“Here I am, Perkins,” he said. “What do you want?” 

Perkins looked abashed and his head dropped. 

“Come along,” said Hector, more kindly. “Speak out, 
man.” 

“P’raps I ain’t entitled to it, Mr. Adair—but—but—I want 
to ask a favour—a favour of you.” 

“Go on,” Hector encouraged him. 

“The boys have been tellin’ me about you, Mr. Adair. 
An’ it appears you come from—from th’ same part o’ the 
world as I do.” 

“Where’s that ?’ 

“You’re a Blenheim county man, ain’t you?” 


115 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“Why, yes,” replied Hector. “And you-?” 

“Me? I’m from Arcady,”—Perkins was grinning with 
sheer joy—“just in th’ next county. You know it?” 

“The little village of Arcady?” Hector asked, in an un¬ 
compromising tone. “I know it well. I thought you were 
an American.” 

Perkins looked sheepish. 

No—ah, that’s just a—a business nationality, with me. 
Pm a Canuck, born in Arcady, Ontario. An’ I want—if it 
ain’t asking too much, Mr. Adair, I want you to do me a 
little favour there.” 

“What is it ?” 

“My old mother lives there yet, Sergeant-Major.” 

Hector felt his sternness melting; but he said nothing. 

“I wasn’t—wasn’t always a—a shell-game expert, Mr. 
Adair. I ran away from home, though, when I was nine¬ 
teen—more than twenty years ago—I was wild—couldn’t 
stand the apron-strings. Well, for a while I ran straight— 
an’—my mother, she forgave me, when she heard I was 
doin’ well—an’ for a long time I ust to write to her an’— 
an’ tell her, God help me, what a fine feller I was. Then— 
well I left the straight an’ narrow, Mr. Adair, but I couldn’t 
bear to let my mother know, ’cause it ’ud ’a’ broken her 
heart. So’ I just kep’ on pertendin’ I was doin’ awfully 
well. I wrote her a pack o’ lies, Mr. Adair, but if she’d 
known the truth, I guess it ’ud have killed her. 

“So all these years I been foolin’ her, Mr. Adair. I ain’t 
wrote to her just lately but that wasn’t my fault. An’ 
now—well, I want you to help me out, Mr. Adair.” 

Perkins had fired the one shaft capable of piercing Hec¬ 
tor’s otherwise impregnable armour. Before Hector left 
the cell he had pledged himself to go and see the gambler’s 
mother and give her that message from her prodigal son. 

And perhaps—who knew?—it might be the turning-point 
in Perkins’ career. 

“God, you’re a white man, Mr. Adair,” declared the 
gambler, as they parted, “the first white policeman I’ve 

ever met.” 




116 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“None of that,” growled Hector. “And mind you be¬ 
have while I'm away.” 

“It’s not much to do,” he thought, as he walked back to 
his quarters. “A small thing-” 

A small thing, yes; but then he did not know that on it 
was dependent an epoch in his destiny. 



Chapter II 


i 

The journey Eastward was one bewildering revelation to 
Hector. The changes in the past ten years had been mar¬ 
vellous. It pleased him to think that without the Mounted 
Police they would have been impossible. 

Staying nearly two days in Winnipeg—now a thriving 
town—he enjoyed a personal triumph. Word of his arrival 
brought hosts of people to see him and showers of invita¬ 
tions. Big Jim Hackett, one-time owner of the Hell's Gate 
saloon, now proprietor of one of the best hotels, insisted in 
quartering Hector and Hugh under his roof, though the 
place was already jammed. Andrew Ferguson, whose 
bakery had grown stupendously, fought with little Johnny 
Oakdale, now monarch of a bustling hardware store, for the 
pleasure of showing Hector round; and so on; and so on. 

But what amused Hector was their anxiety to know just 
why he was going home and their unshakable conviction— 
in spite of all he could say—that his was a mission of love. 

“Of course you’re going home to get married, Mr. Adair !” 
pretty little Miss Sinclair—Mrs. Jim Hackett now—declared, 
a roguish look in her eyes. “Now, listen to me—don’t deny 
it, because I know better. I can see it in your face. And is 
it any wonder? What else should a man go East for, I’d 
like to know? You men are all alike—lose your hearts to 
the first pretty girl who comes along to tell you about 
‘Home.’ Who is she—one of those prying visitors, perhaps, 
or that moon-faced newspaper girl I saw you with when the 
train came in?—The hussy! But I don’t blame her, Mr. 
Adair. You know, I once had quite a soft spot for you 
m y Se lf —and now! Such a fine, big, bronzed fellow, hand¬ 
some as a dream, so young to hold the rank, that beautiful 
red coat—oh, don’t blush! You know it’s true, young man! 

117 


118 


Spirit-of-Iron 

Yes, you do! Would any of your men dare to talk to you 
like this? I guess not, eh? Never mind. Don’t deny 
you’re bringing a bride back with you, because you surely 
will. She’s a lucky girl, whoever she is!” 

“I tell you, you’re talking nonsense,” Hector laughed. 
“What should I get married for?” 

“I like that! ‘Nonsense!’ ‘What should I get married 
for ?’! It isn’t nonsense. It’s quite time you were thinking 
of it.” 

When the sojourn was over and Hector was once more 
in the comparative solitude of the train, he began to ponder 
over this attitude. It was a strange thing that all his friends 
should naturally assume that he was going home to get 
married and, finding themselves in error, should insist that 
it was time he began to think of it. Obviously, they con¬ 
sidered it inevitable that he should now contemplate enter¬ 
ing into the holy state. As he had never given it a moment’s 
thought till now, it was equally obvious that he must be 
unlike the general run of men of his age, by whom his 
friends, of course, judged him. Strange that he had never 
realized it before! 

Struggling against this knowledge—the knowledge of his 
peculiar individuality—he next tried to tell himself that 
most men of his age were unattached or, at any rate, single. 
But his own experience rebelled against the lie. He saw 
that most men had at least been in love—honestly, desperately 
in love—before they reached his years; and he had never 
v been in love; no, not once. Perhaps, though, this was 
easily explained. He had left Eastern Canada while still 
far too young to feel a great passion; since that time he 
had been so busy with his work that he had not had time 
to think of anything else. Besides, he had never found 
in the North-West a woman of such radiant beauty and soul 
as to meet with his ideal, which he knew was extraordinarily 
high. Many had pitched themselves at his head; none had 
satisfied him. In the East, where women were so much 
more numerous, now that he was to see the women of the 
East with a man’s eyes, he might come across some-one who 
could light the divine spark. On the other hand, he won- 


Spirit-of-Iron 119 

derecl if he was one in whose life love had no place. There 
were people, after all, who had gone through life in that 
loneliness. Or perhaps he was one of those to whom Des¬ 
tiny allots one and only one grand passion, which was still 
to come. 

In the end he laughed, calling himself a sentimental ass. 
Time enough to think of love when it came, and when love 
came, of marriage. 

At Alma John met them and Mrs. Adair. And Hector 
gathered her into his arms, murmuring rapturously: 

“Mother, I’m so glad to be home!” 

ii 

The week following Hector's homecoming was a strange, 
swift medley of joy and sorrow, gaiety and festival and 
pain, of renewing acquaintances, paying visits, exchanging 
reminiscences. Hector passed a sad half-hour in the church¬ 
yard where so many of those he loved best—his father, 
Maintop, Long Dick, Nora and the gallant Sergeant Pierce— 
were sleeping. He made a special journey, also, to have 
a look at Silvercrest; but at the last moment could not bear 
to see the old place in a stranger’s hands, and came away. 

At the end of the week he remembered Arcady and his 
promise to Perkins. As it happened, no-one could spare 
the time to go with him. So he went alone, bearing as 
passport a letter of introduction to a Mr. Tweedy, friend 
of Allen’s and owner of half the village. 

Tweedy was all that could be desired. He insisted on 
carrying Hector home with him for supper and later on 
demanded that he should stay with them for the duration 
of his visit, whatever that might be. 

After supper Hector broached his errand, intending to 
lead up to the main point in a roundabout way and to conceal 
such facts as he deemed advisable. But Mrs. Tweedy—a 
bright little woman with glasses and a tireless but mercifully 
charitable tongue—in her first reply, made further ques¬ 
tioning almost unnecessary and settled poor Perkins’ per¬ 
plexities for ever. 


120 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“Mrs. John Perkins?—Mrs. John Perkins?—Let me see, 
now. A widow, eh ? There was a Mrs. Perkins here—very- 
old—son ran away—only child—the rascal!—you say that’s 
the one? Oh, yes, I know whom you mean. Oh, she's 
dead!” 

The news gave Hector an unpleasant shock and his heart 
went out to Perkins. A little later, he decided to confide 
everything to the sympathetic couple. Tweedy shook his 
head a great many times, Mrs. Tweedy wiped her glasses 
and murmured “Poor thing! Poor boy! Oh, dear! Well, 
well!” and both offered to do everything possible to assist 
Hector if he wished to give the affair any more attention. 

“Then,” said Hector, “You’ll take me over to the Post 
Office and the old lady’s grave. I want to make some 
enquiries about Perkins’ letters and I’d like to be able to 
tell him-” 

In the morning, Hector learned that Perkins’ letters had 
been duly delivered to the old lady up to the time of her 
death and that those received since had been sent to the 
dead letter office. Perkins had received nothing from the 
dead letter office. But then, he moved round so much that 
this was not surprising. Tweedy then took his guest over 
to the tumbledown shack which Mrs. Perkins had occupied. 
The afternoon found him too busy to drive to the cemetery. 
Hector obtained full directions as to the route and made 
the journey on foot, took a mental photograph of the grave 
for Perkins, and turned homeward. 

He forgot all about Perkins a few minutes later, in the 
beauty of the autumn evening. The sun, a paling disc, was 
dropping slowly down towards its sanctuary behind the 
far blue hills. Arcady, loveliest of all havens in Ontario, 
lay below him, in a wide valley brimful of golden sunlight, 
glorious with the mingling greys and browns and scarlets 
of woods and fields and orchards. The road on which he 
stood ran winding into the distant town, resting like a 
sleeping child in the middle of it all. Harvesters still lin¬ 
gered in the grain. The orchards glowed with crimson 
apples. From the chimneys of Arcady and the summer 
cottages which fringed the sparkling, rippling lake beyond, 




Spirit-of-Iron 121 

thin threads of blue-grey smoke rose straight upwards 
through the bracing, sweetly scented air and on the lake a 
single sail gleamed like a flake of snow. Somewhere, near 
at hand, a bird called, mournfully, persistently, while a 
church bell tolled with mellow voice a long way off. The 
picture was all that Home and Peace and Canada could 
mean to Hector and for a little while it held him, fresh as 
he was from raw, unsettled wildernesses and scenes of fierce 
toil and sordid crime, in a rapturous enchantment. 

He felt, then, as if he was poised upon the edge of 
Paradise, as if marvels that he could not even guess were 
about to be made known to him. 

In this strange mood, he walked steadily down into the 
valley and along a lane which would take him to Tweedy's 
by a short cut. Tall hedges bright with changing leaves 
enclosed this lane and it was fringed by autumn flowers 
and overhung by loaded boughs. A wind brought to him 
the rich smell of hay and apples and stirred the rustling 
leaves which strewed the ruts before him. A small bird 
piped drowsily. 

Then, suddenly, as he pushed aside a screen of branches, 
he knew that this visit to Arcady was not to be fruitless 
after all, that there was a purpose behind it; and learnt, 
suddenly, why Destiny had sent him there. 

For, suddenly, he saw her. 

hi 

His coming took her by complete surprise and, for a time 
which might be measured in seconds, she remained un¬ 
conscious of his presence. She was sitting on a stile which 
led into an orchard on the left side of the lane, her face 
and figure steeped in the golden sunlight and boldly framed 
by sprays of scarlet leaves against a background of clear 
sky. Her head was partly turned away but Hector could 
see that she was unusually pretty. The soft freshness of 
girlhood blended in her face with the character of woman¬ 
hood and her hair—he had never seen anything like her 
hair, a kind of ruddy gold, almost copper, shot with sun- 


122 


Spirit-of-Iron 

beams which played in it as if they were alive. She wore 
a dress that was soft and white and billowy and from her 
arm hung a small straw hat on two blue ribbons. 

So much he saw in the first swift moment. And then he 
perceived that she was crying, not noisily or violently, but 
quietly, with slowly welling tears. He wondered why. 
Presently he noticed that she was holding out her skirt in 
front and staring at it with a world of misery in her eyes. 
There was a jagged rent in the skirt. A tiny bit of stuff 
fluttering on a nail in the stile told him everything. And 
now she found relief from her vexation in the customary 
feminine manner. 

Hector, sensing nothing more than its rarer beauty, was 
for a moment lost in admiring contemplation of the perfect 
picture. The moment passing, he wavered between pity and 
amusement. From this mood he slowly fluttered back to 
earth, to a realization that he was staring with unforgivable 
rudeness, that he was intruding on a lady’s privacy and that 
courtesy demanded he should make his presence known 
without further delay. But still he could not bear to speak 
and break the spell. And, while he hesitated, she glanced 
up with a startled expression and met his eyes with hers. 

Had he been a Chinese mandarin in full regalia she could 
not have looked more astonished or alarmed. 

“What—what—who are you?” she asked him. 

And Hector, stepping back in some confusion, like a boy 
caught stealing jam, stammered: 

“Excuse me—er—I beg your pardon!” 

By this time she had jumped hastily to her feet, dropping 
the jagged tear into concealment and swiftly dabbing her 
eyes with the tiniest of handkerchiefs. Annoyance crept 
into her face. Then came an awkward pause and her an¬ 
noyance seemed to conflict with a sudden fit of shyness. 
They faced each other in silence. 

“How—how long had you been there?” she enquired at 
last. 

Hector, self-possession rapidly returning, came out from 
among the screening leaves into which he had temporarily 
recoiled. 


Spirit-of-Iron 123 

Not long,” he said. “Only a second or two, in fact. 
I had no idea you were there, of course; and then—when 
I saw you—I was rather caught unawares and I hated to 
disturb you because-” 

He paused, the ghost of a laugh in his eyes. ‘Well, be¬ 
cause what?’ was what he wanted her to say. But she 
continued to look at him in silence and he finished the 
sentence himself: 

“Because you looked so beautiful.” 

She flushed a little. He wondered if she would reprove 
him. Instead, she bit her lip and a hint of laughter played 
about the corner of her mouth, reflecting back his whim. 

“I know I ought to have coughed or something. I most 
certainly should have coughed. I really am very sorry.” 

The apology was genuine. She accepted it and said so, not 
in so many words, but in continuing the parley. 

“I tore my dress,” she explained ruefully, as if in self- 
defence. “I wanted to go home by a short cut. So I thought 
I’d try this lane. The stile here makes it a shorter cut than 
ever. I—I wanted to get over it . . . and couldn’t. And 
my dress caught on that nail; and it was a new one, too!” 

She struggled with a fresh outbreak of grief and an ob¬ 
vious confusion which seemed to say: T know that ladies 
don’t scramble over stiles. But the truth is the truth and 
must be told. What do you think of me?’ 

Hector looked at her gravely. 

“That really is too bad,” he sympathized. “It’s a fine 
dress; and a very awkward stile.” 

She was grateful. 

“Yes, isn’t it—or aren’t they—is that what I mean? I 
shall have to walk back by the long way now.” 

With that, she prepared to go. The dialogue was ob¬ 
viously over and Hector had received his dismissal. 

But he could not let the matter end so soon and in this 
manner! 

“Excuse me,” he said, gently extending a detaining hand, 
“excuse me for intruding further and for contradicting, but 
—you don’t really have to, you know!” 

She looked at him quickly— apparently decided to ignore 



124 Spirit-of-Iron 

this assertion—moved on a step or two—thought better of 
it—and, halting, asked him calmly: 

‘‘How is that?” 

Again the bantering look crept in Hector’s eyes. 

“Well, if I may suggest it, I can help you across.” 

He nodded towards the stile. 

She looked puzzled, followed his glance, and smiled 
amusedly. 

“I don’t quite understand,” she told him. 

Hector smiled back. 

* 

“I don’t believe you’re very heavy. I’m sure—” greatly 
daring, he ventured the plunge, “I could easily lift you over.” 

She raised her eyebrows gravely. Hector felt that he had 
damned himself. 

“Lift me over?” she queried. 

He bowed his head. 

“But—I—I don’t even know you,” she laughed delight¬ 
fully. “You’re a complete stranger.” 

Hector echoed her laugh. Then, becoming serious again, 
“I can soon put that right. Name, Adair, Hector. Rank, 
Sergeant-Major. Regiment, the North-West-” 

“Oh, I know that” she exclaimed. “North-West 
Mounted Police, aren’t you?” There was a good deal of 
pride in her voice, as of one who parades his knowledge. 
“Why, of course—you’re staying with the Tweedys— 
down-” 

She stopped, ashamed of her enthusiasm. 

“You’ll think I know too much,” she said. “But news 
travels very quickly in a quiet little village like this. And 
anything is news. Oh, I didn’t mean-” 

Hector smiled. 

“I know,” he said. “I understand. So I needn’t really 
go on with my explanations now. You have my name and 
credentials. In turn-” 

“Yes ?” 

“To complete the introduction, you must of course tell 
me yours.” 

“Mine? Oh, I couldn’t do that!” 






Spirit-of-Iron 125 

Come along/ Hector urged. He was thoroughly en¬ 
joying this episode. “That’s only fair. Why not?” 

“But-” she seemed doubtful. “This—this is all so 

very informal.” 

Still, said Hector, ’ even so—you can at least tell me 
your name and where you live. You might as well, you 
know, because I’ll find out anyway. You forget that we 
of the Police can find out anything—yes, anything. And 
we generally have our way.” 

Looking at him, she knew that he spoke the truth. But 
she fenced skilfully. 

“Then I’ll leave you to find out,” she smiled. 

“Please tell me.” 

She shook her head. His earnest gaze discomfited her. 

“Come along. Considering that I’m going to render you a 
service, it’s the least you can do.” 

“Service?” she enquired. Then, remembering, “Oh, but 
I really don’t think it should be done.” 

“Nonsense,” he laughed. “I’ll do it so quickly—so nicely 
—that you won’t even know it till it’s all over.” 

She shook her head again and began to move off. 

“Don’t go. Think of the short cut!” he urged. 

“It’s not right,” she said. 

Pie wondered if she really meant it or was only laughing 
at him. 

“Come on!” he said firmly, eyes discreetly challenging. 

Suddenly she tossed her head, with a little laugh. 

“Come on, then!” 

Fatal things, stiles! Instantly he had swung her lightly 
off her feet. His face was so close to hers that he could 
count the lashes of her eyes and smell the soft perfume of 
her wonderful hair. For some reason unknown, he felt 
intoxicatingly dizzy. Deadly things, stiles! 

He had her at an advantage. But she had trusted him 
and he was a gentleman. Climbing easily over the stile, 
he set her down. 

Breathless and laughing, she drew back a stray strand of 
hair with her small white fingers. He waited. 



126 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Thank you,” she said quietly and extended her hand. 
Surely this was not the end ? 

Hector took the hand. 

“Won’t you tell me who you are now?” he asked. 

She laughed, her eyes dancing. 

“Please!” he said. “Remember, I can and will find out in 
any case, if I wish!” 

His square jaw backed his words. 

Suddenly she seemed to relent. 

“You remind me of Gareth, the Knight of the Round 
Table,” she declared solemnly. By this time she had gently 
withdrawn her hand. “Do you remember? He rescued 
a damsel in distress—” her eyes lighted up mischievously, 
“and-” 

“Yes?” he encouraged. 

“She was very unkind to him. Her name was Lynette.” 

“Well?” 

“You may call me Lynette.” 

Then she turned swiftly and left him. He hoped she 
would look back. But she did not. 

IV 

Moving rapidly through the orchard, the girl passed on to 
a square white house, and slipped upstairs to her room. 
Her heart was beating furiously, her eyes were bright and 
her head bewilderingly full of Indians, teepees, pistols, 
horses and Mounted Policemen, Mounted Policemen every¬ 
where. . . . Impulsively she dropped to her knees at the 
window, head on arms, and let the evening breeze ruffle her 
gleaming hair. Her eyes were full of dreams. . . . 

That night, when she had gone to bed, the visions of the 
afternoon came back to her and, getting up again, she re¬ 
sumed her place at the window. The darkness was more 
soothing than the sunset and the light breeze cooler than 
at dusk. For what seemed hours she knelt there, trying to 
put aside the pictures in her mind, yet glad they would not 
leave her. Beneath them all, something she had once read 



Spirit-of-Iron 127 

ran persistently through her head, a bit of poetry, going 
something like this: 

When may Love come to me? 

In the cold grey hush of the dawn, 

In the fierce brilliance of noonday, 

In the soft warm blue of twilight 
Or the depth of night. 

Perhaps in the freshness of Spring, 

Perhaps in the fulness of Summer, 

Or the blazing glories of Autumn 
Or the white silence of Winter, 

Then Love may come to you! 

How may Love come to me? 

Like a monk, colourless, solemn. 

Or perhaps a little boy, weeping, 

Or a sinner, pleading repentance. 

Or a poet, listlessly dreaming, 

Or a soldier, radiant, glowing, 

Passionate, terrible, merciless, 

Girdled with lightning and thunder, 

Hailed with a pealing of trumpets, 

Thus may Love come to you! 

So the words ran. From them, boldly, perplexingly, con¬ 
tinuously, these few phrases stood out before her: 

‘‘In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing 
glories of Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing. . . . 
Then Love may come to you. . . . Thus may Love come to 
you!” 

“In the soft warm blue of twilight ... or the blazing 
glories of Autumn ... a soldier, radiant, glowing. . . .” 

The words would not leave her. And, every time she saw 
them, they conjured up before her eyes—again, she could 
not tell why—a picture of the man she had met that after¬ 
noon. 


128 


Spirit-of-Iron 

Hector finished his walk that night in a pleasant reverie, 
thankful that the gods had rewarded his charitable visit so 
swiftly and so kindly. After dinner, careful to conceal the 
depth of his interest, he described the girl to Mrs. Tweedy. 

“Sort of red-headed girl, eh?” said the good lady. “Well, 
not exactly red-headed—more goldish, copperish, bronzish! 
With beautiful features—almost classical, I think—but not 
so inhuman—taller than most girls—and such a voice! Of 
course I know her! That’s Frances Edginton—Major Ed- 
ginton’s daughter—an only child. She has the sweetest little 
mother—oh, such a sweet woman! He’s a bit of a tyrant, 
though—regular martinet—stuck up, I think—well off, re¬ 
tired Army, and very strict in his ideas. No, they don’t 
live here. Where do the Edgintons live, Arthur? Don’t 
know? Neither do I. I don’t believe anyone does. 
They’re only here for the summer. In fact, this is the 
first summer they’ve been in Arcady. Yes, that’s his 
daughter—Frances Edginton. Lovely, I think—yes, that’s 
the word! Lovely!” 

“I’ll have to meet her again,” thought Hector, “just to 
show I’ve found out. Lynette—eh?—Frances—not much 
alike—both awfully pretty-” 

Turning in that night, he was astonished to find that he 
could not put Frances out of his mind. Her faee remained 
before him, sometimes with that bantering little smile upon 
it, sometimes sweetly serious and framed, always, with that 
radiant halo of red-gold hair. Now he was watching her 
sitting on the stile in tearful contemplation of her torn new 
dress. Now he was holding her hand again, feeling the 
gentle pressure of her fingers when she thanked him. Now 
he was listening to her laugh, her merry, bubbling little 
laugh, now to her voice, that was one moment level, smooth, 
passionless, the next intense and earnest and always soft and 
melodious as running water, caressing as a summer breeze. 
Really, her voice—it was something quite extraordinary. 
He quite agreed with Mrs. Tweedy there! 

Voice, laugh, face, eyes, hair—one after another, round 
and round, they all came back throughout the night. It was 
a pleasure simply to think about them. Was he growing 




Spirit-of-Iron 129 

sentimental, he wondered ? What was the matter with him, 
anyhow ? 

In the morning, he knew—or thought he knew. 

“I must be in love—at last.” 

He saw, now, that the prophecies of his friends in Winni¬ 
peg had been heralds of this moment, sent by Destiny. 

He was in love—at last! 


v 

Few men reach mature years without experiencing a sin¬ 
cere ‘affair.’ Those that do are generally leaders of monastic 
lives remote from cities or settlements where women congre¬ 
gate—are soldiers, sailors, missionaries, pioneers. But when 
love comes at last to men of that stamp, especially when their 
segregation has preserved their boyhood ideals regarding 
women, especially when stern discipline of soul and body 
and close contact with Nature—another name for God— 
has prepared them for its coming—then they love as men 
love at their noblest, deepest and best, bringing with them 
the fiery ardour of strength developed and the reverent 
rapture of youth. 

Hector was ‘of that stamp.’ 

Having discovered that he loved Frances, he shaped his 
campaign, as usual, with a sure, determined hand. The first 
thing, of course, was to see her again, as soon and as often 
as possible. He had originally intended to leave Arcady by 
the earliest train. Therefore as a preliminary, he sent, in 
the morning, the following wire to John: 

‘Unavoidably and indefinitely detained. Important busi¬ 
ness.’ 

‘‘Well, it is important business!” he excused himself. 

Next, he went to Mrs. Tweedy. 

‘‘Mrs. Tweedy, I like Arcady so well that I’ve decided to 
accept your invitation and stay on a while.” 

“There, now!” said Mrs. Tweedy. “Why, I’m just de¬ 
lighted ! And we’ll have such times!” 

Mrs. Tweedy, true to her word, immediately launched 
him out like a debutante among the villagers and summer 


130 


Spirit-of-Iron 

visitors, who asked him to all their picnics, dances, and 
parties. At the first of these affairs, he met Frances. 
Catching the amused recognition in her eyes, he forestalled 
Mrs. Tweedy’s formal introduction: 

“Oh, yes—Miss Edginton. I’ve already had the hon¬ 
our-” 

Mrs. Tweedy melted away. 

“You see, Lynette,” he added, “I told you the Police 
always find out!” 

“O, marvellous young knight 1” she answered. 

Thenceforward he constantly sought her company. 

In due course he met the Major, who was all and more 
than all that Mrs. Tweedy had said. He reminded Hector, to 
a certain extent, of his own father. A middle-sized, very 
soldierly man, with keen eyes, snow-white hair and drooping 
white moustache, he conformed to a distinct type of which 
Colonel Adair has been a taller and finer edition. Toward 
Hector he adopted an attitude of distant politeness, which 
seemed to say at every turn, ‘Thus far and no farther.’ ‘He 
knows I’m a gentleman,’ Hector decided, ‘and consequently 
feels that he must be at least courteous, though it hurts him 
terribly—because I’m an N. C. O.’ But, knowing the Army 
officer of the Old School, he neither heeded nor resented 
Major Edginton. 

Mrs. Edginton he fell in love with at once. She was 
small, dainty and faded, very sweet and gracious. From 
Mrs. Edginton Frances had stolen her pansy eyes, clean-cut 
features and extraordinary hair. Hector decided that Mrs. 
Edginton had long played second fiddle to the Major. But 
he also saw that Frances was all the world to her. ‘If any¬ 
thing ever happens,’ Hector thought, ‘she’ll find herself torn 
between her duty to her husband and her love for her 
daughter; though, everything considered, I think a man 
might count her an ally.’ 

On the whole, she reminded him of his mother, just as 
the Major recalled his father. 

These observations were made at odd moments, when he 
was not busy in pursuit of Frances. In this pursuit, he 
threw his whole heart and soul towards the objective, forgot 



Spirit-of-Iron 131 

everything and everybody else and was thoroughly and com¬ 
pletely happy. 

Every hour with Frances brought forward some delightful 
discovery serving to bind him still more closely. Her beauty 
did not fade on closer acquaintance, as that of other women 
did, but became, if possible, more obvious than before and 
revealed some fresh and striking charm that dazzled him. 
The sun, striking through her hair from this angle or that, 
gave it a tone which hitherto he had not seen. Her eyes, in 
such a light, took on a purple mystery as yet unknown to 
them. And so on and so on, as the youth in him directed. 

He found out other things, concerned, not with her ap¬ 
pearance but with her personality and character. The sweet¬ 
ness which had first attracted him proved even deeper than 
he had imagined. She developed an unexpected serenity of 
strength. Her sense of humour, of which he had learned 
something at the stile, he discovered was a charming, eager, 
whimsical thing, quaint and illusive as a fairy, brilliant as a 
sunbeam, subtle as far-off laughter. He loved a woman with 
a sense of humour, such as that possessed by Frances. He 
loved a woman with insight and understanding. She had 
both. She possessed, in fact, everything necessary to create 
between them a powerful bond of sympathy. Her ideals 
were just as he would have them. Quite obviously, she was 
meant for him. 

In the meantime, what practical knowledge of her had he 
acquired? From her own lips he acquired it, in short order. 
Her father was English, her mother a Canadian. They had 
met while the Major was in garrison at Halifax and had 
been married there. She looked on herself as a Canadian 
and Canada was her home but she really had no home at all, 
unless it was her father’s in England, which she barely knew. 
The Major had retired long ago and the family had been 
wanderers ever since she could remember. She had lived 
and attended school in the States, in France and England 
until old enough to ‘come out’ and had made her debut in 
London. Today she knew ‘Society’—as distinguished from 
‘society’—amazingly well, after only two seasons. Her stay 
in Arcady was in the nature of a rest cure. Her normal life 


132 


Spirit-of-Iron 

lay in fashionable circles, among titles and flunkies and 
millionaires. In a short time they would be going back to 
that life but had not yet settled on their movements. 

To Hector, this was discouraging. It meant that their 
paths, though Fate had brought them together for a time in 
Arcady, lay really far apart. Hers led through worlds of 
wealth and ease, inhabited by the fortunate few, his through 
poverty and toil, inhabited by suffering millions. Well, 
never mind. Here, in Arcady, they were on common groumd, 
The future?—He dared not face the future, so he let it go. 

So, day by day, beneath her influence, his love developed 
and grew, not like a sun leaping suddenly over the horizon or 
a flower opening slowly into radiance but like a strain of 
music that marches from a soft, plaintive opening through 
a spreading, quickening crescendo to a glorious, crashing 
climax which has in it immeasurable power and majesty, 
peace and tenderness and a hint of terrible storm. And eyes 
that understood saw her wakening and responding, like a 
placid lake stirred gradually, almost imperceptibly, to move¬ 
ment by gathering winds. Hector could not see it. He was 
a child in such matters. 

Mrs. Tweedy saw it, though, was thrilled to ecstasy and 
did her level best to make a match between the two. 

Day by day—and all that remained now, for Hector, was 
to make the plunge. Had he been anything but a child in 
such matters, he might have read his answer a thousand 
times in her eyes. As it was, he kept putting off the fateful 
day. But time was moving on. Within five days he must 
leave for the West. Of his total leave period of forty-two 
days, thirty were already gone. Seven days were required 
for the return trip West. Of the five days remaining, he 
owed his mother the majority. His scheme was to speak to 
Frances first, then to her father as soon afterwards as pos¬ 
sible and then, whatever the outcome, to go home. If he 
was successful at this, the greatest moment of his life, he 
would make further plans later on. All arrangements, 
whether successful or not, he had to fit into this essential— 
his return to duty on time. 


Spirit-of-Iron 133 

Seeing her at the Post Office one morning, he seized his 
opportunity. 

“Meet me at the stile tonight—at any time that suits you,” 
he whispered. 

“You sound like a popular song,” she whispered back. 

She had never had a rendezvous with him before. 

“Don’t laugh,” he pleaded. “Will you? Don’t joke with 
me— now . Will you?” 

She nodded, secretly overwhelmed. 

“At nine o’clock,” she told him. 

VI 

At half-past eight Hector left the house to walk to the 
stile. 

The night was perfect—an ideal night in autumn—with all 
the mystery and magic that go with it. A harvest moon, 
like a great balloon of orange silk illuminated from within, 
rode low in the darkness, apparently tethered among ghostly 
trees in the heart of a valley beyond a sheaf-crowned ridge. 
A filmy veil, all shadowy blues and mauves and greys, in¬ 
vested day’s familiar objects with a strange and supernatural 
beauty. The night air was soft and cool and murmurous 
with the music of innumerable insects. The wind sighed 
gently in the trees, with an eerie whisper, and brought with 
it a hundred subtle perfumes. 

At nine o’clock he reached the stile. 

She was there. 

“Is that you, Hector?” 

Her voice was startlingly distinct. 

“Yes, Frances.” 

They began to talk—at first in broken, uneasy sentences— 
later settling down into their customary ease. After a time, 
he slowly swung to the personal. She knew that he was 
paving the way to the vital matter and she helped him 
cleverly. 

Now, haltingly but indomitably, he began. He was very 
close to her but staring into the darkness before him. She 


134 Spirit-of-Iron 

could see his face in firm silhouette against the moonlight 
sky. 

“All my life”—he was saying—“I’d been in a military 
atmosphere, with soldiers and sailors all round me. The 
thing was in my blood. You can’t understand—well, per¬ 
haps, you can, because your father was a soldier, too. But 
you’re a woman. Only men, I think, can feel the—I sup¬ 
pose I mean the fascination of it, though that isn’t just the 
word I want. And even men can’t understand it, unless 
they’re born in it, too. It’s a wonderful thing, reserved for 
Service families. Besides, I’d been encouraged. I was to 
have a Commission and be a soldier. That’s what I was told. 
So, when I was a baby, even, I was dreaming of some day 
being an officer and—well, I admit it—a great man.” 

“Go on,” she said; his quiet voice holding her. 

“Well, my father’s death seemed to smash all that. I 
was a youngster and it broke my heart. However, I plucked 
up courage at last—and began to look out for a chance. I 
was determined I was going to be a soldier, anyway, and if 
necessary I’d work my way up to a Commission. I hung on 
to my dreams.” 

“Poor little Hector !” she murmured. 

His words conjured up a pathetic picture. She touched 
his hand sympathetically. He went on. 

“One day my chance came. They were organizing the 
Mounted Police. Not exactly soldiers—but soldier-police¬ 
men. I joined—and set out to work my way up.” 

She was silent, enthralled. She knew that a strong man 
was paying her the greatest tribute in his power—was show¬ 
ing her the most secret places of his heart. 

“It was hard work—hard, hard, hard. But I loved it—do 
still. I had luck, of course. Early this year, they made me 
Sergeant-Major of my division—after ten years. The next 
step is either Regimental Sergeant-Major or a Commission. 
I hope it’s a Commission—I’m almost certain it will be. 
Probably next year. You know what it will mean to me.” 

She thought she knew—the goal of a lifetime and of in¬ 
numerable trials and struggles achieved at last, by sheer 
will-power and stark, unaided effort. 


Spirit-of-Iron 135 

“But that’s not all. You know, I couldn’t talk to every¬ 
one like this, Frances. It sounds—well, I don’t know how it 
sounds. You can see what I mean. Never mind! I’m going 
to finish. Where was I? Oh, yes—that’s not all. Remem¬ 
ber, I said just now, I wanted to be not only an officer, but— 
but a great man! When I get my Commission, my first 
dream is reached. The other one remains. 

“During those years, Frances”—his voice took on a more 
intense note—“I never—I never thought of—well, love. 
That is, in a personal way. Somehow, it never entered my 
head. I was busy—busy all the time. Women are few and 
far between out there. I suppose I’d have—well, fallen in 
love, like most people, if I’d met anyone that attracted me— 
or fitted in with my ideals. But I never did. I suppose I’m 
hard to please—thank God. I wanted,” he was stumbling 
now, like a man on a rough road, in the dark. “Oh, you 
know—a woman—well,” he laughed, “of course, that was 
beautiful-—but a good woman—strong—and fine as true 
steel. Well, they’re rare—or I’m blind. I began to think— 
when I thought of it at all—that they didn’t exist. But 
they do!” 

Her heart pounded. He had taken her hand in his, in a 
strong grasp. 

“I’ve found one in particular.” 

For a moment he was silent. 

“Now, with that girl—well, there’s nothing I couldn’t do— 
nothing! With her to work for, nothing in the world could 
hold me back! I want her, because—well, my dream of 
greatness might never come without her—it wouldn’t be 
worth while even if it did—and the road would be—well, the 
longest, hardest road that ever man trod. I want that girl’s 
love to help me. Together—but, God knows, I don’t want 
to brag. 

“I’ve found her—Frances—but I hardly dare to tell her. 
I’m only—well, I’m only an N. C. O., with a precarious 
future. My Commission is almost a certainty but even that 
won’t add much to my pay, which will be a pittance to the 
end of time. Even after that, if I do ever amount to any¬ 
thing, it will still be a pittance. Today, in the eyes of the 


136 Spirit-of-Iron 

big world and of those this girl associates with, I’m nobody; 
and if I got to the very top, I’d still be nobody, to some of 
them. She has millionaires and famous men in bucketsful 
to choose from—and she’s so wonderful that they’re fighting 
to be chosen. So how could I hope she’d look at me? Out 
where I come from, of course, it’s different, Frances. A 
man’s a man not because of what he has but what he is. 
And that’s right. It’s not money that counts, in this world, 
really. It’s the big things—the things—well, the things 
worth fighting for. I think I’m fighting for a big thing. And 
I—do you know, Frances, I think this girl will see things 
with my eyes ? So I’m going to tell her that I love her and— 
leave the rest with her. Do you think I’m right?” 

His heart—all his hopes, dreams, ideals, his simple, noble 
creed and code—were lying before her now, for her inspec¬ 
tion. In that moment, she saw him a giant, remembered 
what he had said, ‘With that girl to work for—nothing in 
the world could hold me back!’ and felt herself dominated 
with his strength and courage. 

“Frances,” he repeated, quietly—close to her, now, and 
both her hands in his—“do you think I’m right?” 

Her heart was hammering. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

“Do you know who the girl is?”—Closer still and breath¬ 
less. “It’s you—Frances— you!” 

For answer, she lifted up her face to his. Then she was in 
his arms and nothing else mattered. . . . 

She was the first to break that rapturous spell, with words 
that stabbed him like knives or caressed him like soft hands. 

“You’ve been—so honest with me, Hector,” she said, a 
little tremulously, “that I’m going to be the same with you.” 

He bowed his head. 

“You said you were afraid of famous men and million¬ 
aires—why, Hector, they sicken me. Hector, you’re the 
first real man I’ve ever met. Oh, it isn’t just that nice red 
coat—though that goes to my head like champagne, Hector. 
You are—you really are. Every girl has dreams, too. ‘Some 
day/ I dreamt, ‘I’ll meet a real— real —man—brave, strong, 


Spirit-of-Iron 137 

chivalrous, with great, yes, great ideals—a fairy Prince, a 
Knight of the Round Table!’ They say they don’t live 
now—Oh, but they do! Perhaps the armour’s gone, but 
they are Knights and Princes just the same. ‘Well,’ I said 
to myself, ‘some day, God willing, I’ll meet a man like that. 
How will I know him? Oh, I’ll know him, never fear! 
And he’ll come’—well, just as you came, Hector. And—it 
was you. I knew at once. Hector, I’d go with you to the 
world’s end, if you asked me. But—Oh, Hector, there’s-” 

“I know,” said Hector calmly. “Your father! He doesn’t 
care for N. C. O.s-” 

She looked away hastily. 

“Oh, don’t be ashamed,” he added. “It’s quite natural.” 

“You must see him,” said Frances at last. “But you don’t 
know him. He has a terrible temper and he’s like granite— 
just like granite. Well, you must ask him—dear. We have 
to risk it. I don’t think he’d—hurt me, Hector. Besides, 
your’re a soldier’s son—and—it isn’t as if you had no pros¬ 
pects. But oh, I’m afraid—I’m afraid-” Her head sank 

on her breast. He took her two hands again and turned her 
towards him suddenly. 

“Look at me!” he ordered, terribly earnest. 

She obeyed. 

“Frances—if—if your father says ‘No’—will you wait? 
Will you stick to me? Only say that, and 77/ wait for ever— 
to the very end, Frances. You say you know me. Well, 
believe me now.” 

Tears brimmed in her eyes. 

“Will you, Frances ?” 

“Oh, Hector, I’ll promise! But my father—my 
father-” 

“I know. But I’ll speak to him. I’ll bring him round. 
For you, Frances”—his voice rang—“I’d fight the whole 
wide world! You must trust me.” 

“I’ll tell Mother,” she whispered, in return. “She’ll be on 
our side. She’ll help—prepare him, Plector. And, because 
you’ve got to go so soon,” she faltered, but went on bravely, 
“I’ll arrange things for tomorrow night. And I’ll—I’ll be 






138 Spirit-of-Iron 

praying for your success, Hector. You—you don’t think me 
miserably weak?” 

“No,” said Hector swiftly, “of course not. Then that’s 

settled. But, Oh-” for the first time his voice quavered 

with a note of agony, quickly suppressed, “if I fail—if I 
fail—wait for me. Wait for me! Will you?” 

“Yes,” she said again. 

“Frances-!” 

The moon went out behind a bank of cloud and the wind 
freshened, wailing. 

At last they parted . . . till ‘Tomorrow/ 

VII 

“And so-?” said Major Edginton. 

The two men faced each other in the Major’s big living- 
room. 

“And so,” said Hector, “I want, sir, to marry your 
daughter.” 

The Major remained silent for a moment. Hector’s 
heart beat furiously. Outwardly, he was perfectly calm. 

“You—want—to—marry—my—daughter ?” 

Astonishment and stinging scorn! 

Hector held himself strongly. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Then suddenly the Major dashed his mask aside. 

“And who the devil are you ?” he almost shrieked. 

The cry was to Hector a violent slap in the face. Deadly 
insult and utter defeat dominated it. But he stood firm. He 
had anticipated a hard fight. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied calmly, “I have 
already told you who I am.” 

The Major stared at him. For a moment Hector’s per¬ 
sonality beat him into sanity. 

“But, good God, man —my daughter!” he exclaimed, under 
his breath. His hard eyes glared sombrely beneath their 
white brows. “My daughter!” 

“Yes, sir.” 





Spirit-of-Iron 139 

Whatever happened, Hector must keep his temper. To 
lose it would be fatal. 

“But—but-” the Major was incredible now and in¬ 

clined toward laughter, “why—do you realize who I am?” 

“Yes,” said Hector, quite unawed. 

“I’m a Major in the Regular Army! And you—and you— 
why-” 

“Well ?” 

Hector’s voice was very gentle but it said ‘Be careful!’ 

The Major was deaf to the warning. 

“You’re nothing but-” he choked, “You’re nothing but 

a N. C. O!” 

The assertion goaded. Still Hector kept his temper. 
After all, this was Frances’ father, who could make or mar 
their lives. 

“That’s true—nothing but a Sergeant-Major. From your 
point of view, sir, that’s my misfortune. But many N. C. O.s 
are gentlemen. Anyway, I’m not asking your daughter to 
marry a Sergeant-Major who will be a Sergeant-Major for 
ever. I’ve already told you, sir, of my prospects.” 

“Prospects-” muttered the Major, “prospects are— 

prospects, sir, nothing more. To me you’re a ranker and 
always will be. Flave you got your recommendation for a 
Commission yet?” he concluded swiftly. 

“No, sir.” 

“Well, then—but, good God, what’s the use of my wasting 
time? I don’t care whether you’ve a thousand recommenda¬ 
tions! I look for something better for my daughter than a 
man in the ranks—or an officer who’s served in the ranks. 
Confound it, they’re all one to me—understand? My God, 
it’s like your—your colossal impertinence-!” 

He flashed into fury. 

Hector had paled under his tan. He put out a hand. 

“Steady, sir, please. Let’s take this thing quietly.” 

“Hang you—now you’re attempting to dictate—damna¬ 
tion, sir!” 

“No, sir, I’m not. I want a chance, that’s all. Your 
daughter—loves me, sir. You wouldn’t break her heart?” 

This was only adding fuel to the fire. 








140 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Loves you? Break her heart? My God, but you—you 
have the most colossal impertinence I ever beheld!” 

“It’s true, sir. She’s told you so herself.” 

“Pah!” the old man snarled. “She’s a child—a child! 
A mere infatuation! A mere infatuation! Puppy-love, sir, 
puppy-love. You sweep her off her feet, swaggering about in 
your wretched red coat-” 

“Wretched red coat, sir? The Queen’s uniform, don’t 
forget—the uniform you wore!” 

The blow went home. The major mumbled. 

“Well, in any case,” he resumed at length, “it’s a mere 
infatuation! As soon as you’re gone, she’ll forget all about 
you!” 

Malicious vindictiveness inspired him. 

“Do you think so, sir ?” 

Hector’s voice was very unemotional. 

“Yes, sir, I do! Why, good God, Sergeant-Major”— 
Hector knew that the ‘Sergeant-Major’ was slightingly 
meant and for a moment a strange light glowed in his eyes— 
“my daughter associates with men of position—men—men— 
hang it all, gentlemen!” 

Again another slap in the face, vicious, stinging! 

“Do I take it, sir,” again Hector let the insult pass, fight¬ 
ing his battle for Frances with all the strength he had, 
“that the fact that Pm in the ranks is the big objection?” 

The Major remained gloweringly silent. 

“Is it?” 

“M-m-perhaps,” the old man snapped. 

“And—and-” try as he would, Hector could not pre¬ 

vent his voice trembling as he put the fateful question, “will 
it stand against me always—Commission or no Commission ?” 

“Certainly,” the Major replied firmly. 

“That’s final ?” 

“Good God, yes! How many times must I tell you?” 

“But— you're a civilian now. I associate with gentlemen- 
civilians. We all do.” 

“Gentlemen-rankers do not associate with the circles in 
which my daughter is accustomed to move, sir! But I will 
not prolong this discussion. I don’t know you—I don’t want 




Spirit-of-Iron 141 

to know you-” the old man, rising to a pinnacle of 

temper, leaped suddenly to his feet. “Who are you? No¬ 
body! Where do you come from? God knows! Who the 
devil was your father? God only knows! Your mother? 
God knows! Oh, leave my house, sir, leave my house!” 

Insult on insult, stonily endured, for Frances’ sake; but 
this last tirade was more than Hector could stand. He for¬ 
got everything now—Frances—the future—everything but 
the fact that this ranting old bigot had cast unforgivable 
reflections on his dead father, his mother and his own per¬ 
sonal honour. Standing rigid under the rain of abuse, he 
remained so now, but his fists were clenched and his eyes 
blazing in a deathly face. 

“Major Edginton,” he said hoarsely, “thank God, you’re 
an old, helpless man or nothing in the world would save 
you now! You can take her away, you can do what you 
like, but you can’t kill her love or mine! We’ll beat you, 
in the end. I’m sorry you took things this way. The fault 
for tonight’s breach lies with you. Remember that—al¬ 
ways !” 

“Leave my house!” 

Hector turned on his heel and marched blindly out of the 
room. 

Frances, on the landing upstairs, fearing the worst, was 
praying incoherently, desperately. And then—the door of 
the living-room swung open, was softly closed and she heard 
Hector’s firm tread—one—two—three—four—go through 
the hall, out of the house into silence, awful, heart-breaking 
silence. 

Those measured sounds beat on her brain. She never 
forgot them. They marked this fact: Hector had failed. 

Drunk with agony, she heard her mother’s quavering, 
pitiful voice, ‘My dear, my dear!’ . . . 

Three days later the tearful Mrs. Tweedy smuggled a 
note into her hands. 

“What was he like?” she asked. 

“Oh, don’t ask me—don’t ask me,” said Mrs. Tweedy. 

This was the note—dated from John’s: 



142 


Spirit-of-lron 

"‘Frances, my Darling— 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you before I left. It was useless 
to attempt it, as your father would not allow it. Frances, 
your father and I had a terrible quarrel. He wouldn’t hear 
of our marriage and he insulted me as no man ever dared 
to do before. I stood it as long as I could but, though I 
regret it now beyond any words, I couldn’t put up with 
what he said in the end. Perhaps when I’ve got my Com¬ 
mission, he may relent. You must do your best to influence 
him. But in any case, I ask you to keep your promise to me. 
Keep it, and your courage. No matter how things go against 
us or how long we have to wait, I’ll never change. Before 
God, I swear this, Frances. I know you have the strength 
to be true also. And if you ever can write or come to me, 
‘North-West Mounted Police, N.W.T.’ will always find me. 
I’m going back today. 

Till we meet again, then— 

Hector.” 

The letter was written on a piece of John’s notepaper 
with the Adair crest upon it. She looked at the crest and 
at the proud, stern motto, ‘Strong.—Steadfast.’ The words 
seemed to her the very embodiment of Hector, of his prom¬ 
ise, of everything she must be and had sworn to be in the 
long and hopeless night before her. 


Chapter III 


i 

Hector and Superintendent Denton walked over together 
to headquarters, a group of sunlit buildings in the shadow 
of the straining Union Jack. A brilliant young sentry paced 
the path between trim rows of whitewashed stones, an 
orderly kept guard in the ante-room and the atmosphere 
breathed the ceremonious and formal efficiency invariably 
surrounding such places. Somewhere within this group of 
buildings was the Holy of Holies, the sacred and inviolate 
sanctum which held the High Priest of this Canadian Order 
of Knights Templar, the terrible and all-powerful Com¬ 
missioner of the North-West Mounted Police. 

They entered the Presence. 

“Sit down, Denton.” The Commissioner cordially waved 
the Superintendent to a seat. “Good afternoon, Sergeant- 
Major.” 

Hector saluted. The Commissioner looked at him quiz- 
zingly. 

“I called you ‘Sergeant-Major/ Mr. Adair. As a matter 
of fact, my recommendation which, as you know, was for¬ 
warded to Ottawa after Major Denton had brought your 
services to my notice in a very laudatory manner, has been 
approved and your appointment as Inspector is gazetted. 
I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on an unusually 
well-earned promotion.” 

He held out his hand. Thus was Hector’s lifetime am¬ 
bition achieved. 

Presently the Commissioner told Hector to draw up a 
chair. 

“I haven’t had you brought here merely for this, Adair. 
I’m going to entrust you with an important a very im- 

143 


144 Spirit-of-Iron 

portant—mission and I think it as well for me to give you 
some details myself.” 

In a hushed voice, he proceeded to explain. 

“You’ve known that for several months we’ve been fear¬ 
ing trouble with the Indians and half-breeds; but I doubt if 
you know just how serious the position really is. Ever since 
the Government surveyors appeared, Adair, there’s a storm 
been brewing. The half-breeds want their land parceled out 
in their own way, not the Government way; and they mean 
to have it. That’s the main grievance. They have others. 
In addition, they see the railway making rapid progress 
and they know what that means. Once the railway goes 
through, settlers will follow in tens of thousands and the 
old order—the order we found when we first came here—will 
have received its death blow. They don’t like this and they 
mean to prevent it. I think they’d be all right if it wasn’t 
for the agitators. They’re in every settlement and camp 
and they’re doing their best to bring about a revolt. Our 
business is to keep the peace; and I mean to see that it is 
kept. 

“I’m having all camps, settlements and agitators carefully 
watched. Every movement, every event is known to me. 
One of the reserves which needs especially close watching is 
Bear Tooth’s, near Broncho. Bear Tooth’s all right, I think, 
and so are most of his chiefs; but his young men are warlike, 
there’s a lot of them and Broncho is temptingly close by. 
If they kicked over the traces, the results might be terrible. 
So I must have them watched night and day—but diplomat¬ 
ically. Bear Tooth mustn’t be offended. Nothing must be 
done to stir up suspicion or hatred. This needs a good 
man. I’m sending you, Adair. Your qualifications are ex¬ 
ceptional. You’ve proved yourself over and over again. 
And you’ve made it your business to know the Indians 
thoroughly. It’s a devilish big thing for a new officer, Adair. 
But you’re an old Policeman—and big enough.” 

Then, while Hector expanded with pleasure inside, he 
added: 

“Inspector Lescheneaux will be working with you but 
you’ll be independent of each other. He knows and likes 


Spirit-of-Iron 145 

you, so it will be all serene. It means your posting to *1/ 
of course. Major Denton will be sorry to lose you, but 
it’s inevitable. And, as you’ll understand, it’s wiser to post 
a newly-commissioned officer to another division. This is 
one of the most important tasks I could give you, Adair. 
Your appointment and transfer will appear in tomorrow’s 
orders. Good luck—and, again, my congratulations!” 


ii 

There are moments in life, great moments witnessing the 
realization of a cherished ambition or embarkation upon 
some fateful enterprise, when one prefers to be alone. This, 
to Hector, was one of them. He left the Superintendent 
at headquarters and, going to his room, tried to grasp to its 
full extent the meaning of what had just occurred. A wild 
exultation had hold of him and he was for the time 
being drunk with success—so drunk that he could not think. 
He wanted to drag himself out of this mental state and 
soberly to contemplate the situation. 

Gradually his mood became less intense and he was able 
to con things quietly over, like a child lingeringly, one by one, 
over a string of new toys. 

What did his Commission mean to him? 

Firstly, it meant that the goal of all his lifetime and espe¬ 
cially of the past ten strenuous, passionate years had been 
achieved, that his long fight for the leadership which had 
been his birthright was ended. 

There was joy enough in that. 

Secondly, he told himself, it meant that the second, more 
distant and ultimate goal of his life was now within reach if 
not within sight. The soldier-blood in him had always 
longed for the opportunity of great service to his country, 
for advancement and distinction, not from selfish motives, 
but from the pure, clean motives underlying the highest form 
of patriotism. ‘Give me power, that I may use it for my 
country’s good’; that was the sentiment animating him. The 
power, though not yet given him, was now close at hand. 


146 Spirit-of-Iron 

The long, toilsome pilgrimage had brought him at last to the 
edges of the dawn. 

There was also joy enough in that. 

But thirdly—and perhaps, chiefly—it meant—Frances; not 
that Frances was now his, by any means. But he could stand 
up now before her father and say: ‘You wouldn’t listen to 
me before, because I was not an officer. I am an officer 
today. What is your answer?’ 

When Hector left Major Edginton’s house, he had suf¬ 
fered a broken-hearted agony far beyond any physical tor¬ 
ment he had ever known. Injured pride, self-pity and, above 
all, outraged love had combined to harry him and he had 
tasted their torture as only strong natures can taste it in the 
first tragic shock of disillusionment. This agony had driven 
him out of Arcady early on the following morning without 
an attempt to say ‘Good-bye’ to Frances. It made itself more 
acute because it forbade him to tell Mrs. Tweedy what had 
happened, though he knew that she sensed the crash and he 
was longing to give way to his misery. It persisted in even 
fiercer form during the last few days at John’s, but during 
that time, in spite of it, he had forced himself to write? a 
note to Frances for secret delivery by Mrs. Tweedy. At 
Winnipeg, on the return journey West, it laughed in bitter 
mockery in his ears when he saw his prophetic friends and 
was compelled to make a jest of the absence of the bride 
they had expected. And it reached its climax when, writing 
Mrs. Tweedy for news, he learned that the Edgintons had 
left Arcady, immediately after his own departure, for an 
address in New York given her by Frances—the only mes¬ 
sage the girl had been able to leave. 

Gradually, however, the first acute pain passed, leaving a 
dull, lingering torment which in time became almost a part 
of himself. With this transition, he recovered something of 
his old buoyancy and determination. Destiny had made a 
mock of him but its trickery, after all, might be only tem¬ 
porary. He knew what he would do! He would redouble 
his efforts, by hard work and untiring study, to win his Com¬ 
mission. And then, when he had his Commission,—well, 
Major Edginton would relent, if Destiny so decided. And 


Spirit-of-Iron 147 

if he did not relent—well, he would still have his old dreams 
of advancement to follow and would be on the threshold of 
achievement. 

Having made up his mind, he at once set about the task 
with his usual vigour. The task was not difficult. Long 
before meeting Frances, he had made great progress. His 
officers were interested and helped him along in the kindest 
possible way. Eighteen months after his return from Arcady, 
six months previous to this day of days, Superintendent 
Denton had dropped him a hint of what was coming. 

And today—today!— 

He was happier than he had been since that fateful night 
now two years past. 

He knew that, as far as Frances was concerned, he was 
not yet on dry land. Nevertheless, he had her address—the 
lifeline holding them together, without whick he felt he would 
certainly have drowned. It was enough, today, to know 
that he might at last stand up before Major Edginton to 
claim Frances. He was determined not to admit any pos¬ 
sibility of failure, to leave no room for fears that Frances 
might have moved again or, worse, forgotten him. She had 
not written him? That was nothing; the Major might have 
prevented her. It was sufficient that he had her address 
and that she had promised to wait till the end. 

So then and there he wrote to her, telling her everything 
and saying: ‘Please let your father know and, if there is any 
hope whatever, just advise me accordingly and I’ll write to 
him. . . .’ 

The letter finished, stamped, sealed, his thoughts drifted 
to the work awaiting him near Broncho. He recalled the 
Commissioner’s words : ‘This needs a good man. . . . One 
of the most important tasks I could give you. . . .’ and, 
recalling, realized that this was a marvellous opportunity. 
He felt a return of the exultation which had lately possessed 
him. The possibilities were endless. Let him but handle 
this situation successfully, receiving the distinction which 
would naturally follow and Major Edginton would probably 
change his mind soon enough! 


148 


Spirit-of-Iron 

in 

With the spring came War. 

In spite of all the efforts of the Commissioner and his 
followers, the Old Order, as he had prophesied, seeking to 
stave off the inevitable, broke out in arms against the New. 

Lescheneaux, much excited, told the news to Hector. 

“Mon Dicu, mon leetle camarade! She ’as com’, oui! She 
’as com’, en fin! ’Ave I not said so all along? An’ af-taire 
all we ’ave don’ for dem, les dam’ scoun-drelle! De way 
we ’ave slave’, we ’ave toil’, we ’ave sweat’ an’ freeze an’ 
starve’— sacre! Ecoutez vous, ’Ect-eur! De ’alf-breed an’ 
de Indian—dey ’ave risen, oui!” 

“What details ?’’ 

“Dey ’ave risen—risen everywhere! Dey ’ave attack’ our 
fellows an’ kill nine and wounded I don’ know ’ow many 
more up dere near Goose River. De Commission-aire ’as 
march’ wit’ all ’ands, dey bring in outlyin’ detachment’ every¬ 
where as can be spared. De Crees, de Assiniboines are up 
wit’ de ’alf-breed, Calgary, Edmonton, all de Nort’-West is 
alarm’. An’ we—we ’ave about t’ree-four ’ondred men, 
among twenty-t’irty t’ousan’ Indian! By Gar, ’Ect-eur, I 
t’ink we in for ’ot time, oui!” 

Rubbing his hands, the little Inspector grinned ecstatically. 

“You’re right, that’s certain,’’ Hector agreed. “But it 
won’t last long. They’re sure to send troops from the East. 
Why not before—eh?’’ 

“Oui! But don’ as’ me. Mais, restez tranquil! We see 
plenty fon, all de same. But I’m sorry, ver’ sorry—for you, 
mon ami!” 

“Why for me?’’ 

“Eh? Mon Dieu, I ’ave forgot to tell you de mos’ impor¬ 
tant t’ing ov all! I leave you today an’ tak’ mes enfants 
along, too. You are to stay’ere an’watch Bear Tooth. Me? 
Maybe I get into de beeg war. But you, pauvre petit, you 
mos’ stay ’ere an’ eider Bear Tooth rise an’ eat up your 
leetle ’andful—goolp!—in one modful or ’e stay quiet an’ 
you ’ave no fon at all. No alternative, mon ami. Nevaire 


Spirit-of-Iron 149 

mind. You will ’old a position alone even more important 
den before!” 

Hector looked at his companion blankly. 

“Hold on!” he urged. “You’re going away with all your 
men and I am to remain, watching Bear Tooth, with ten? 
Is that right?” 

“Absolument! Rcgvrdes —’ere is de order.” 

Hector looked at the document. 

It was quite true. He was to be left alone to watch Bear 
Tooth; and the tribes were up through all the North-West! 

The hell the agitators had brewed was boiling over every¬ 
where. Bear Tooth was quiet but his braves might rise at 
any moment. The Commissioner looked to him to sit on 
the lid of that particular cauldron with his little detachment 
and see that they did not do so. 

He took a deep breath. 

Lescheneaux, seeing himself already engaged in hounding 
the rebels, slipped jubilantly away with his command that 
night and Hector was left alone. 

IV 

The uprising, as everybody knew, was the product of the 
campaign which had been continued throughout the winter, 
among the ignorant and inflammable half-breeds and Indians. 

That winter had been a busy one for Hector. In co-opera¬ 
tion with Lescheneaux, he had kept Bear Tooth’s reserve 
under constant observation. Indian and half-breed scouts 
helped the Police in watching the camps, attending the meet¬ 
ings and patrolling. Hector did his best to allay the mis¬ 
chievous talk. The Indians knew they were being closely 
observed but they did not know that no man went to or from 
the reserve or spoke a single word of sedition without Hec¬ 
tor’s knowledge. Night and day, week after week, in thaw 
or blinding blizzard or bitter cold snap, Hector and his men 
were in the saddle—silent, inconspicuous but never-resting 
guardians of the Queen’s peace on the great frontier. 

Meanwhile, the shadow of revolt grew darker and darker 
over the land. 


150 Spirit-of-Iron 

And now—the shadow had become substance. Broncho 
lay at Bear Tooth’s mercy—unless Hector could hold his 
warriors in check. 

It was a terrible position. 

Fortunately he had two staunch allies: Bear Tooth himself 
and Father Duval. 

Hector had kept in touch with Father Duval, whom he 
knew to be using all his tremendous influence to divert dis¬ 
aster. He had also sounded and consulted Bear Tooth. The 
chief, he felt, was reliable and loyal. 

Between them, Hector felt, the situation might just pos¬ 
sibly be kept in hand. 

For the fortnight following Lescheneaux’s departure, he 
was constantly on his feet and in constant communication 
with Father Duval and Bear Tooth. 

His first move was to consult and advise Father Duval. 

They met secretly. 

“Whatever we do, Father,” said Hector, “we must use 
tact, logic and persuasion. Threats? Useless!” 

Father Duval smiled. 

“Eh-h-, but you are a man af-taire my own ’art, Inspec- 
teur. Dese pauvrcs sauvciges —dey are joost children— bebes. 
Show a beeg, beeg stick—<iey be’ave! Vraiment ! But show 
a leetle stick—poof ! Dey knock you down! Ef you ’ad all 
de Police be’ind you—ah! All right—shake de fist! But as 
you ’ave only ten men—ah! Talk quiet—ver’, ver’ firm but 
always no t’reat! Mais, attendee! Dese fellows are no fool. 
We give dem logic, as you ’ave said an’ I bet you all stay 
quiet.” 

“My sentiments exactly, Father,” Hector agreed. “Now, 
you are a man of peace; and they know it. There’s not an 
Indian from here to the Arctic Circle that doesn’t trust you, 
Father. Whereas—well, they know the Force is in arms 
against this revolt and they might think I was just talking 
to bluflf them if I see them first. What I suggest, Father, 
is this: go to them, get them together, point out how we have 
helped them and treated them fairly always. Show them 
the treacherous side of this uprising. Tell them the mis¬ 
takes the rebels have made. Then go on to point out the 


Spirit-of-Iron 151 

power of the Great White Mother—how we’ve already 
avenged the Goose River affair—how an army is already 
on its way to crush the enemy—how the flow of troops will 
continue, thousands and thousands of Shagalasha, until the 
war is ended at any cost and the leaders of the rebels hanged. 
Don’t forget the rope, Father. Then—” 

“Den— pour fini, —tell’ dem ’ow much wiser to stay on 
reserve, till de ground, sell to de Government an’ be true 
to de Queen. Eh, mon enfant, I know! ’Ow you say ? 
Count on me, count on me! Mes pauvres petits! Mon Dieu, 
mon Dieu!” 

“Then that’s settled. 7 will stay away—it will be more 
diplomatic. Afterwards—well, we’ll see how you get along 
first.” 

“Bon, bon, bon! I go. Pray for me!” 

And Father Duval departed on his great mission. 

After forty-eight hours of—for Hector—intense anxiety, 
Father Duval returned, victorious. 

“I saw every-one, Bear Tooth an’ all,” the priest told 
Hector. “I talk joost as we agree, you an’ me. We are not 
yet escap’ from de wood, vous-comprenez: mais, le bon Dieu, 
’e as bless our effort, oui! You go yourself now to Bear 
Tooth! You see.” 

“Father,” said Hector, “the country owes you a great 
debt—” 

“Could I leave mes enfants to go stray at de word of fools 
an’ demons?” 

In the meantime, things were marching steadily to a climax 
in the field. The number of rebels had increased. The 
Mounted Police had been driven out of their northerly posts. 
Troops were moving steadily Westward, from all Canada, 
to reinforce the little bands of settlers and Police in whose 
hands the safety of the country rested. 

Would they be in time? Heaven alone knew. 

In Broncho, Colonel Stern was organizing a column to 
co-operate with the soldiers when they arrived. Hector 
longed to be with him, so that he might bear an active part 
in the operations. But he could not leave the reserve without 
orders. To leave it at that moment, in any case, would have 


152 Spirit-of-Iron 

been madness. The cauldron, despite Bear Tooth’s pledge, 
was still bubbling. The dashing, brilliant role was not for 
Hector; his was the harder, less attractive part of mounting 
guard. Fate was cheating him out of the glorious oppor¬ 
tunity of a lifetime. But he was too good a soldier to 
complain. 

Suddenly came splendid news—a letter from Colonel 
Stern, ‘through the usual channels,’ offering Hector com¬ 
mand of the body of scouts then in process of formation for 
work in the Broncho column. 

This was the Colonel’s way of showing his long-established 
affection for and confidence in Hector. The temptation was 
immense. Hector decided to see Father Duval and abide 
by his decision. He had been fretting out his soul for 
action; but without a clear conscience, it; was—of course— 
impossible to leave. 

“Father Duval, can you control Bear Tooth without me? 
Is it safe for me to go to Broncho?” 

“Mon enfant the priest smiled, “you ’ave don’ your 
share. Today, Bear Tooth an’ me—we ’old de ’ole tribe in 
our two fists—so! Go—and de Lord go wit’ you!” 

There was no doubt of it. Between them, they actually 
had kept the most dangerous tribe in the North-West in 
check for good and all. 

“If you feel, as I do, that Father Duval is capable of 
dealing with the situation henceforward,” Hector wrote to 
his chief, “I would recommend that Colonel Stern’s request 
be granted.” 

This answer placed his fate in jeopardy. But he was 
honest to the last. 

Came, after torturous suspense, the following: 

“In view of Father Duval’s opinion and yours, you will 
withdraw to Broncho with your detachment forthwith.” 

Conscience was satisfied and the Road to Glory laid open! 
When Hector told the men, they cheered like mad. 

“Tak’ good care yourself, mon petit amir said Father 
Duval. “An’ don’ worry about us no more!” 

That night they marched to Broncho. 


Spirit-of-Iron 


153 


y 

Broncho was in a turmoil. Already overcrowded with 
settlers, cow-punchers, loyal half-breeds and their several 
families from the surrounding district, it was daily becoming 
a richer prey for the bloodthirsty rebels. Appalling rumours 
kept it on the rack. Special trains, loaded to capacity with 
women, children and faint-hearted men, pulled out for the 
East and safety in an unending stream. The streets were 
full of galloping horsemen, raw bands of eleventh-hour 
recruits and long-faced citizens hastily organizing themselves 
for defence. Saloons, eating-houses, stores and stables 
talked War, War, War. 

Through this turmoil, hailed as a troop of angels de¬ 
scended from Heaven to the rescue, Hector and his scarlet- 
coated policemen rode to Colonel Stern’s headquarters. The 
Colonel, wearing a gunner’s uniform of incredible age and 
an expression of the utmost calm, met them at the door. 

He was obviously delighted to be back in harness. 

"Well done, well done, Adair!” he exclaimed, returning 
Hector’s salute. “You’re the best thing I’ve clapped eyes 
on since I got here. Just the rpan I need—chose you my¬ 
self ! Come inside! Glad to see you—at last!” 

In the office, the Colonel explained the plan of campaign— 
a push northwards of three columns, of which the Broncho 
crowd was one, as soon as the Commander-in-Chief was 
ready, to converge on So-and-So. The Colonel’s lot was to 
consist of a squadron, under Hector, two battalions of militia 
from the East—‘all the way from the lower Provinces, 
Adair—there’s your united Canada!’—and a detachment of 
artillery—‘Yes, they’ve given me a pop-gun!’ The advance 
would take place very soon, as speed was essential if the 
northern settlements and Western Canada were to be saved 
from a general conflagration. The Colonel was having some 
difficulty in arming his men, with whom fire-arms had be¬ 
come unnecessary of late years, owing to the protection 
afforded the country by the Mounted Police; but that diffi¬ 
culty was in the course of solution. 


154 Spirit-of-Iron 

“And I’ve an ideal Sergeant-Major for you; an old 
friend/’ 

“An old friend?” Hector was puzzled. “Who—let me 
see—” 

The Colonel’s eyes twinkled under their deep thatch of 
eyebrow. 

“Sergeant-Major Whittaker! You couldn’t have a better 
man!” 

“Whittaker! Well, I’m—; Jove, that’s splendid! Is he 
here, sir?” 

A short time later, these two, who had last met as Ser¬ 
geant and senior N. C. O., were shaking hands as officer 
and civilian. 

“Yes, sir, I came down right away,” said Whittaker, smil¬ 
ing all over his bronzed hatchet face. “Fact is, I heard 
Colonel Stern was here organizing a column and—well, any¬ 
way, I’m like that old warhorse in the Bible, saying ‘Ha! 
Ha!’ among the Capt’ins. I smell the battle afar off an’ 
there’s no holding me. Once a soldier always a soldier, Mr. 
Adair!” 

Things were looking up! With Sergeant-Major Whit¬ 
taker and his little troop of constables to stiffen it, Hector 
could make such a corps out of the splendid raw material 
at hand as would write a new chapter in the history of 
frontier cavalry. 

It was at this time that Hector was introduced to the 
machinations of the political press, with -which he was to 
have a close acquaintance later on. 

Newspapers from the East came in regularly, full of 
prophecy, criticism and advice, each more hysterical than 
the last. Issue after issue, blatantly headlined and editorialed 
by know-nothing party reporters fifteen hundred miles dis¬ 
tant from the scene of action, reached the hands of Hector 
and his constables, uttering such things as these: 

ARE THE MOUNTED POLICE ASLEEP? 

IS THE COMMISSIONER AFRAID? 

SOME DRIVING POWER NEEDED. 

KOW-TOWING TO THE REBELS. 


Spirit-of-Iron 155 

One day he saw his trumpeter tearing one of these papers 
to shreds, crying: 

“Damn them! Damn them!” 

“Never mind them, Mason,” Hector said. “All servants 
of the Government have to put up with such attacks. We’ll 
just show we’re too big to pay attention to them.” 

But when he realized that these, papers were believed 
infallible by the militia regiments and half the people of 
Canada, he found it hard to preserve that equanimity. 

In a week of desperate work, Hector produced a body of 
over a hundred scouts drawn from the world’s best sources, 
of no uniformity but fully supplied and able, with its string 
of pack-mules and extra horses, to move independently of 
the main body, go anywhere, do anything and fight anyone 
on earth. 

In ten days’ time, they received orders to advance. At 
the head of the column, cheered frantically by hysterical 
citizens, they swept out of Broncho. 

VI 

From the naked woods on the rolling brown ridge beyond 
the valley came the echo of the last lingering shots of the 
enemy. In the deserted rifle-pits which pocked the hillside 
lay many motionless forms, dark, dwarfed by distance. 
Two or three white-faced corpses sprawled on the open 
ground in front of the pits. One of them wore a red coat, 
which, in the afternoon sunshine, stood out startlingly, like 
a blot of blood, the one bit of colour in the entire picture. 
Near by was a dead horse, legs in air, repulsively grotesque. 

Colonel Stern’s column had attacked and completely de¬ 
feated the rebel right wing that morning in a position several 
hundred miles beyond Broncho. Covered by a weak rear¬ 
guard, the enemy were now rapidly retiring. 

In the distance, out of range, the transport—heavy farm- 
wagons, light carts and pack-mules—were clustered. With 
them were Hector’s cavalry. 


156 Spirit-of-Iron 

Colonel Stern stood with his staff close behind the firing- 
line, studying the enemy’s country. 

Utterly unflustered, he began to talk rapidly to his senior 
officers. They were all agreed. The time had come for a 
vigorous pursuit. 

‘‘Boy,” said the Colonel to an orderly, “give Mr. Adair 
my compliments and tell him to come up here at once.” 

In five minutes, Hector joined his commander. 

“Adair,” the Colonel said shortly, “it’s evident we’ve 
shaken ’em badly. A hard, merciless pursuit now may end 
everything. Are you ready to start?” 

“At once, sir.” 

“And, oh—Adair. I didn’t mention it before; but I had 
a despatch from the C. in C. this morning and it appears—” 
he whispered a smiling sentence. 

“The man himself ?” 

Hector for once was shaken out of his calm. 

“The man himself—the cause, the leader, the keystone of 
the revolt! Joined ’em three days ago, the General says. 
Chase ’em night and day; give ’em no rest; harry ’em; 
smash ’em; capture that bird and you’ll be the hero of the 
whole campaign. It’s the chance of a lifetime, Adair; but 
I’m glad you’ve got it.” 

For a moment Hector paused, his eyes far away. He 
thought of that night in Regina when he had seen in this 
uprising a marvellous opportunity. But he had never 
dreamed of it developing such an opportunity as this! For 
a moment he felt as if everything were already his—Frances 
—success—the world— 

“I’ll follow you, Adair.” 

“All right, sir.” 

To get back to his men was a matter of a few minutes. 
Rapidly he gave his orders: 

“Trumpeter, the ‘Fall In’—look sharp. Quartermaster, 
follow up with the pack-mules. Sergeant-Major, detail an 
escort. 'Tion! Number —” 

The trumpeter rattled out the call. The men fell in, their 
horses plunging. The scouts swept off in front. Then, in 
single file, their scarlet-coated leader at their head, Hector’s 


157 


Spirit-of-Iron 

dashing frontier cavalry circled the camp at full gallop, tore 
through the ranks of yelling infantry, waved a hand in fare¬ 
well and thundered down the slope and away. 

VII 

In a wide and desolate expanse of open country patched 
with sloughs, Hector's men, after twenty hours of unceasing 
pursuit, were suddenly and definitely checked. They had 
lost the trail. 

Gaining touch with the enemy soon after the start, they 
had maintained it all through the night, through the grey 
hours of the morning and so on till nearly noon. The night’s 
pursuit had been fierce, wild work, like some mad vision of 
a disordered brain, fierce, wild work at a furious pace, over 
ridge and hill, round lake and wood, through brawling river, 
down broad valley and deep ravine and full of fearful, unfor¬ 
gettable sights and sounds: scouts on their knees, like ape- 
men in the gloom, feeling the ground for telltale tracks left 
by the rebels; the rattle of sliding stones as the cavalry 
plunged along the steep face of a gully; distant shouts of the 
scattered enemy, trying to keep touch; loud shouts, near at 
hand, of warning—fear—command ; strings of horsemen, 
glimpsed for an instant, gigantic and pitch black against the 
lighter blackness of sky; the faraway drum of many gallop¬ 
ing hoofs, sensed rather than heard; the flash of rifles, 
darting from rock to rock; the swift glare of light on the 
face of a rebel scout, firing his last round home; horse and 
man dashed for a breathless moment in a sudden blaze, like 
a man and horse of living flame, as the nearest cowboy an¬ 
swered surprising shot with shot; and now and then, cleav¬ 
ing the darkness from some unknown source, the unearthly 
scream of a wounded animal, expressive of the hate and 
terror of it all. 

Daylight found the pursuit still hanging on, though reduced 
in numbers and still pressing the rebels hotly, though 
splashed and drenched from head to heel, parched with 
thirst, racked with hunger, worn out and running short of 
ammunition. By that time the battlefield of yesterday and 


158 


Spirit-cf-Iron 

Colonel Stern's column were alike far behind and they were 
alone on the verge of the great lake district to the north. 
But Hector drove his men tirelessly forward, with a merci¬ 
less ‘Push on!’—‘Push on!’ 

And now the trail had been utterly lost for over an hour 
and they were checked, willynilly, for good and all. 

With a little party to cover the operation, the scouts were 
working on a cast, in a wide circle, like questing hounds. 
Hector had with him some of the best scouts in the North- 
West and he was among the best of them himself; but they 
could not find the trail and all hands were near despair. 

In this crisis, he would have sacrificed ten years of his life 
to have old Martin with him. But Martin Brent had been 
in his grave for years. 

He had no-one like him to rely on. 

The situation was agonizing to Hector. This was his first 
great experience as an officer and he knew that not only 
his own men but every man in the Police would judge his 
capacity as an officer by his present success or failure. Be¬ 
sides, Frances—his dreams of progress—everything he most 
desired was dependent on this one issue. He had built up 
a thousand visions with victory in this trial as their founda¬ 
tion. To fail now—after pushing his men and himself to 
exhaustion, after hounding the enemy on and on for twenty 
desperate hours—would mean the end. 

Then, above even these things, there was the country. Its 
eyes were on him. Colonel Stern looked to him. He had 
it in his power to save a welter of bloodshed, to smash the 
revolt, to bring its leader to the scaffold—if he could only 
find the trail. 

But the trail was lost. 

He remembered, too, the newspapers, in his mind’s eye 
saw headlines like these: 

REBELS TOO SMART FOR POLICE. 

INSPECTOR ADAIR’S FAILURE. 

RESULTANT LOSS OF LIFE. 

LET HIM RESIGN. 


159 


Spirit-of-Iron 

He heard, too, in imagination, the sneaking, mocking 
whispers of malice and jealousy condemning him on every 
side. 

He went on searching relentlessly; but in his heart the 
spectre of defeat had already risen. 

Till, all at once, the light came—sent, once more, by Des¬ 
tiny. With Mason, his trumpeter, he had moved off to a 
flank, on the slope of a hill, covered with small bushes, the 
crest just above them. Suddenly the bushes on the crest 
parted and an Indian appeared. Mason threw his carbine to 
his shoulder. 

“Don’t shoot!” Hector roared. 

He saw that the Indian was a squaw and unarmed. 

But it was too late. The boy’s jumpy nerves had pulled 
the trigger. 

“Oh,— !” 

Hector ripped out an oath that none had heard him use 
before and ran up the hill. 

He found the woman lying in the bushes. The bullet had 
gone straight through her chest. She was done for. 

Hector, seeing that the damage was done, had now only 
one thought—to question her about the rebels. 

He lifted her—she was small and light—kneeling and 
holding her in his arms. He did not yet recognize her. 

Speaking her own tongue, he began. 

“Where have you come from?” 

She opened her eyes with a great effort and looked at him 
woodenly. A vague perplexity crept into her haggard, 
deathly face; a faint smile; then all her perplexity vanished 
and, smiling almost rapturously, she put out a trembling 
hand—touched his cheek—whispered— 

In a flash, he knew her—in spite of her thinness, suffering, 
faded beauty. His mind went back through the mists of 
three—four—five years and more, back to Milk River, Fort 
Walsh and Sleeping Thunder’s teepee— 

It was Moon. 

He uttered a strange, inarticulate cry—struggled to speak 
—could not— 


160 Spirit-of-Iron 

She touched his cheek a second time. Agony was in her 
smile, making it terrible. 

“Oh,—they’ve killed—me,” she said. 

“Moon!” Hector burst out, “What are you doing here?” 

She still smiled—the old sweetness always in her face— 
through tears of pain that dimmed her beautiful, soft eyes. 
Every word was an intense effort. 

“So—you have —come,” she whispered. “I stayed—be¬ 
hind—to meet you. I was—so tired—so tired—and Loud 
Gun—he beat me. I knew—you were—following us—every¬ 
body knew it, for—everybody—knows you. You will—not 
beat—me. You have always—been kind—to me. I thought, 
‘I can—go no—further. I will stay—behind—and go to 
him. And he—will protect me.’ So I—stayed. That is 
why—I am here. I was waiting—till you came—near. I— 
thought I—would jump out at you—as children—do. I— 
thought ‘How pleased and surprised he—will be.’ But, oh— 
they shot me!” 

Hector held her closer. A thin trail of blood trickled piti¬ 
fully from the corner of her trembling, childish mouth. The 
sight pierced him. He took her shaking hand. 

“Where is Loud Gun?” he asked, his voice like flint. 

By this time the trumpeter and some of the men , were 
standing near, a silent group, puzzled, unable to understand 
what the woman said but able to see that their leader had 
been deeply stirred. Hector barely realized that they were 
there. 

“Loud Gun?—He is with—the rest of them—the rebels. 
He is—chief of the band—now. My father—is gone. He 
rides the ghost-trail. Had he—been—living, his people, my 
people—they would not—have been—led away—into this— 
cruel—madness. But—” she repeated, “he rides the ghost- 
trail. And I—will soon—O, I am happy!—I will soon be 
with him!” 

“You say Loud Gun has been unkind to you?” 

Hector’s voice was trembling, though he tried hard to 
control it. 

“At first—he loved me. But then—he—tired—of me. 
But now—all that is over; and I do—not—care.” 



Spirit-of-Iron 161 

The words came heavily, painfully, from her lips, like 
cripples, one by one. The blood from her mouth still trickled 
down. Hector tried to stop the thickly welling flow from 
the hole in her chest with his handkerchief but could not. 

“Listen, Moon.” He steeled himself for the effort. “Tell 
me—where have they gone?” 

She looked at him, striving always to smile. But her 
eyes were already clouding, her voice and senses failing. 

“Will—it—serve you—if I tell?” 

He answered swiftly: “It will be the greatest service 
man or woman ever rendered me, Moon. And it will end 
this miserable, useless rising.” 

“So?” she said. “Then—I will tell—you. Why should I 
not—tell you? Loud Gun—and his—people—have cast me 
off. Then, why should I—not—tell you—whom I love—ah, 
yes I love—as much as—ever ? They have gone—they have 
gone—” 

He felt her slipping away and made a desperate attempt 
to hold her back. 

“Yes, yes! Where have they gone? Quick, Moon—tell 
me!” 

“They have gone—gone—that way.” She pointed with 
her shaking hand. “They—rode—through—that slough— 
there—to hide the tracks—and down a little stream—on the 
other—side. So—for three hours—and then—for—” 

“Yes?” 

“For the—great lake—in the north. Its name—its 
name—” 

“I know it!” said Hector. “I know it.” 

She had shown him the trail. 

And she was fast nearing another trail—a longer trail— 
herself. He felt her clutch his hand convulsively. 

“Then—I —have served you, after all!” Her voice was 
very weak but there was great joy in it. “I—could—not 
have—you for my own self; and you—would not let—me— 
be your servant then. But the Great—Spirit, He—has— 
been—so kind to me. He has—let me—aid you—serve you 
—when you—most needed me—and in the—end. Oh, you 


162 Spirit-of-Iron 

of the gentle heart—see how your kindness to the—poor and 
lowly—brings you—a reward !” 

Her eyes rested now with a vague longing on the heedless, 
bright blue sky, the dazzling sunshine, the long sweep of the 
empty hills and the slough, a sheet of silver. To renounce 
all this—and lose him with it! All the agony of all the 
partings and renunciations that have ever been was in that 
one wistful glance. 

Hector’s heart—soft as a woman’s, as are the hearts of 
all really strong men—was breaking and this was more than 
he could bear. A slow tear coursed down his face. He did 
not heed it. But she saw it there. 

“Tears—for me?” she said wonderingly. Again she 
smiled, the bravest smile he had ever seen. “Ah, do not 
weep for—me. I am happy—to—die—for—you—with you. 
It is—just as I—have always—wished.” 

A moment more and the fierce grip of Death seized her. 
She felt it coming, shook convulsively, torment indescribable 
on her face— 

“Moon!” Hector implored. 

She opened her eyes—smiled again into his— 

“Hold me—tight!” she whispered. 

He gathered her into his arms. 

The story was ended. 

At last he set her down and was instantly back to the 
business in hand. 

He shouted an order at the staring men and cleft the 
silence with a blast on his whistle that brought the others 
racing in. 

“All right, Sergeant-Major—send the scouts off—this 
way! Follow up with the rest—follow me!” 

Mason, the innocent cause of Moon’s death, came running 
up with the horses, recalling to Hector’s mind—Loud Gun. 

Then, once more, but for the last time, the astonished 
trumpeter heard his leader ripping out most fearful oaths. 

“I’ll settle him! By God, I’ll settle him!” he ended. 

Savagely spurring his horse, he put himself at the head 
of the scouts and flashed off on the trail the rebels had taken. 


163 


Spirit-of-Iron 


VIII 

Broncho was en fete —spreading herself. The uprising 
was over—every spark of revolt completely quenched. That 
afternoon, there was to be an official ‘welcome home’ to the 
city’s heroes. 

At the head of the column forming for the march to the 
platform was Hector and his cavalry—a rejuvenated troop, 
happy as larks. 

But Hector was more serious than the men had ever seen 
him. 

“C. O. got the hump? Just look at him!” 

His mind in a turmoil, Hector obeyed the order to march 
off. The Broncho band, of citizens of all ages, uniform caps 
their only regalia, burst into semi-harmonious strains and 
led the way through the crowd. 

And the crowd—looked at the bronzed young officer on 
his noble horse, remembered his record—and worshipped. 

Hector heard their Hosannahs thundering to the sky, saw 
men, women, children, all madly excited, swirling round him, 
waving innumerable handkerchiefs, flags, hats—and still 
floated in a world of dream. 

They were grouped round the platform now. The Lieu¬ 
tenant-Governor of the Territories and his party appeared; 
‘God Save The Queen’; a salute; hysterical cheering! 

Colonel Stern, a wonderfully handsome figure, with his 
keen face, hooked nose and long moustaches, came riding up 
with his staff. Passing Hector, he smiled kindly; then joined 
the Lieutenant-Governor, who began a speech in his praise. 

Bursts of cheering! The Lieutenant-Governor shifted to 
a new theme. Hector, still in a daze, caught snatches of 
these remarks. 

“The dashing young leader . . . officer of the gallant 
and well-beloved Mounted . . . spearhead of the advance 
. . . exposed himself recklessly throughout . . . when 

the time came, swept fiercely in pursuit . . . engaged 

them finally at . . . where they were caught between the 
lake and . . . could not escape . . . though greatly 

outnumbered, smashed the rebels utterly . . . captured 


164 Spirit-of-Iron 

not only the remnant . . . but their leader . . . head 
of the whole revolt . . . himself . . . thus single-handed 
bringing . . . campaign . . . swift and glorious con¬ 
clusion . . . yes, Inspector Adair!” 

Then a wonderful thing happened. The impatient crowd 
broke its bonds and instantly filled all the space about the 
platform. It rushed round Hector. He found himself sud¬ 
denly walled in by a field of exultant faces and dimly real¬ 
ized that they were cheering him . . . cheering him. . . . 

Over this heaving mass a voice suddenly threw a roaring 
word, hailing Hector by the name long given him by the 
Indians and sometimes by the civilians, in token of the 
strength and fearlessness which they considered him, the 
embodiment of himself: 

“Manitou-pewabic!” shouted the voice. “Manitou-pew- 
abic r 

Instantly the crowd took the cue and roared the name, 
sometimes the translation of the name, in one great tumult 
of sound: 

“M anitou-pewabic!” —“Spirit-of-Iron! Spirit-of-Iron!” 

For a moment, then, coming out of the clouds, Hector 
felt, for the first time in his life, the tremendous exultation 
of wide fame and brilliant success. This crowd, these cheers, 
were his. That name, that wonderful name, they had given 
him. In their way, those people represented all Canada. The 
whole country was applauding him. Destiny had given him 
greatness. He was no longer struggling to advance. He 
had advanced! 

“Spirit-of-Iron!” thundered the crowd. “Spirit-of-Iron!” 

Afterwards, those who had seen him returning their 
salutes, remarked that he had not once smiled. 

If they had known the reason why! . . . They did not 
know. 

The fact was that, the first wave of exultation past, the 
intoxicating drink turned to gall on Hector’s lips, became a 
curse and a mockery. 

Just before falling in for parade that afternoon, an orderly 
had handed him a sheaf of letters, his first mail since leaving 
Broncho to fight the rebels. Among the letters was one 


Spirit-of-Iron 165 

which brought his heart to his mouth. It was his letter to 
Frances—returned ‘dead’ after wandering over half America. 
On the envelope was stamped ‘Address unknown.’ 

In the hour of success, Fate, after her playful manner, 
had kicked him off his pedestal and crushed him like a beetle. 
The laurels had developed spines that lacerated his hands. 
He had lost Frances, utterly lost her. 

What did he want with this cheering? 

But still the crowd yelled on tumultuously and the great 
moment lingered—the moment of universal acclamation— 

mocking him—glorifying him- 

Spirit-of-Iron! 


IX 

Autumn dawned. The epic railway lay completed from 
sea to sea. Its last spike had been the last nail in the coffin 
of the Old Order. The dead heroes of the little war, who 
had made that victory possible, slept peacefully, heedless of 
the thunder of the vast tide of humanity now bearing down 
upon the plains for which they died—the tide which was the 
first wave of the iron-spirited nation to come. 





1 


BOOK THREE: The Clash 








BOOK THREE: The Clash 

Chapter I 

i 

On the open prairie outside the growing city of Broncho, 
in the heart of the cattle country, the Mounted Police held 
their Queen’s Birthday sports. 

Mrs. MacFarlane, not long made wife of Inspector Mac- 
Farlane, looked on the scene from her seat in the front row 
of the officers’ marquee and felt herself quite intoxicated 
with the glamour of it all. 

Mrs. MacFarlane was an American, brought up in the 
Eastern States and hence new to the West and particularly 
to such martial pageantry as this. 

She was also an uncommonly pretty woman, small and 
graceful, with seductive eyes of baby blue, fringed with very 
long lashes; well marked and arched eyebrows; a mass of 
hair so fair that it was almost white; a little tip-tilted nose; 
and lips that seemed perpetually to ask for kisses. She had 
a voice which alternately cooed and purred and sometimes 
did both at once. Intensely feminine, she revelled in her 
frills and ribbons and exotic perfume, had always an eye 
for a good-looking man, craved masculine attention as a 
child craves candy, and, when any prospects of the kind were 
in sight, was alive to nothing else whatever. If attacked, she 
would instantly resort to tears. Altogether, she was of the 
type which some women call ‘sweet’ and others ‘cattish.’ 
Most men would call her ‘pussy.’ But she made her pres¬ 
ence felt; and there was ‘more in her than met the eye.’ 

No one could quite understand how a pretty woman of her 
stamp, who so admired physical beauty in men and was 
herself able to appeal to them after a certain fashion, had 

169 


170 


Spirit-of-Iron 

come to marry a big, grumpy, bear of a fellow like MacFar- 
lane. Some months before, returning from the East on 
leave, MacFarlane had electrified every man and woman 
connected with the Force by bringing with him this unknown 
beauty as his bride. How on earth had he managed it— 
when, even now, she clearly revealed her preference by fur¬ 
tively ogling all handsome men, even the constables? Never 
mind; she had accepted him. Some day, perhaps, when the 
novelty of her present life wore off and she had settled down 
to await Eternity in the rough dreariness of pioneer barrack 
life with MacFarlane for company—well—things might 
happen. 

Time enough to think of these things when they came! 
At present, reclining in her chair, watching the sports with 
the dreamy little smile which she knew became her so well, 
she was perfectly content. 

Beside her sat Mrs. Jim Jackson, wife of the now promi¬ 
nent rancher, a large, good-humoured lady of much anima¬ 
tion, with an insatiable love for gossip. From Mrs. Jackson 
she learned much concerning the sports and the sportsmen. 

“See that bunch over there—where the big, red-headed 
man is standing? They’ve got an outlaw,” Mrs. Jackson 
explained—“a horse no one can ride, you know. That par¬ 
ticular beast is a corker. He’s killed two men already.” 

Mrs. MacFarlane shuddered. 

“Then why do they use such a horse?” 

“Oh, but they have to. Unless the horse is a real snorter, 
it makes the competition too easy. Donny, the man looking 
on—Corporal Donaldson, y’know, the Superintendent’s team¬ 
ster—can handle him, don’t worry. He’s one of the best 
rough-riders in the Force.” 

Amid roars from the spectators, Donaldson flashed past 
the marquee, the horse bucking furiously. Mrs. MacFarlane 
caught a glimpse of its devilish eyes and of the face ot 
Donaldson. She caught Mrs. Jackson’s substantial arm with 
a pretty terror. 

“Oh, he’ll be killed 1 He’ll be killed!” she gasped. “And 
—he’s actually smiling!” 

“Why, that’s nothing to Donny,” Mrs. Jackson soothed. 


The Clash 


171 


“He’s enjoying it. I’ve seen him stick till the blood ran out 
of his mouth and ears and the brute had jolted him insen¬ 
sible. No one can touch him unless it’s Dandy Jack. He's 
a wonder. There he is! In the roping contest—last on the 
right!’’ 

“Is that Dandy Jack?’’ queried Mrs. MacFarlane incredu^ 
lously, singling out a young puncher in brilliant regalia, who 
looked as if he had just stepped from a cocoon and possessed 
the face of Sir Galahad. “But—but he’s only a child! And 
just beautiful, Mrs. Jackson. Who is he? Do tell me!” 

“He’s an American, aged sixteen, no one knows where 
from—originally. Landed in at my husband’s ranch one 
day, dressed just as you see him now, a regular dream, and 
asked for work. Jim thought he was some romantic kid 
tenderfoot. ‘You ride?’ he says. ‘Listen,’ said Dandy Jack, 
‘if I show you, will you take me on?’ ‘Sure,’ said Jim. So 
young Jack climbs up on the cross-bar over the corral gate. 
‘Drive your worst horse under here—no, never mind saddle 
or bridle. I don’t want ’em.’ As the horse ran under, didn’t 
Jack drop onto his back and ride him out? So my husband 
naturally took him on. And he’s been in this country ever 
since.” 

“But how wonderful!” sighed Mrs. MacFarlane, gazing 
adoringly on the young puncher. “Do tell me more!” 

Mrs. Jackson, thus encouraged, chattered on. 

“He looks a perfect angel, but my dear—the language that 
boy can use! He’s the most original cusser west of the 
Mississippi. They say he had to cross the line because he 
killed three men in the States—brutes who wiped out his 
father, mother and sisters—a feud of some kind. The sheriff 
was a friend of theirs, so he had to hit the trail for Canada 
or swing. But that’s just a story. It can’t be true, or he 
wouldn’t be busting horses for the Force now—that’s his 
job.” 

“Oh, I hope it's true! I hope it’s true!” sighed Mrs. Mac¬ 
Farlane. “And now do point out the new C.O. You know, 
I haven’t met him yet. Mac’s jealous—you’ve no idea! Of 
course, he only arrived yesterday, but still-” 



172 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Do you see that very tall, straight man, joking with your 
husband? Well, that’s him!” 

“Is that him?” ‘Dandy Jack’ was instantly forgotten. 
“Oh, but—but, my dear! I simply must meet him right 
away. Really, Mrs. Jackson, never-” 

Mrs. MacFarlane, completely carried away, concentrated 
her attention on the new C.O. and was instantly brought to 
her figurative knees. 

It was not merely his superb physique and its effect in 
brilliant uniform which gave her the feeling that she was 
in the presence of one unconquerable—a master of men, a 
builder of empires. It was his face—the face of a man 
still in his prime, but not to be measured in years. He might 
have been thirty or thirty-five, but was probably just on the 
right side of forty. To a strong regularity of feature, years 
of hardship and exposure had given an intense bronze and 
a network of stern clean lines, lending the face great char¬ 
acter and nobility without adding much to its age. The 
man’s smile, she thought, would have melted stone; but he 
did not smile often. Otherwise, there was more than a hint 
of sadness in his serenity. Once he glanced in her direction 
and she thrilled under eyes that were like the frosty blue of 
mountains seen from a great distance. 

Till that moment, Mrs. MacFarlane thought, she had 
never set eyes upon a Man. 

Mrs. Jackson was babbling away. She silenced her witvi 
an impatient gesture. 

“But—tell me about him," she insisted. “He must be 
awfully interesting.” 

“He is. Let’s see—well, now, first of all, you must know 
he?s a great friend of your hubby’s. Why, I thought he’d 
have told you! Oh, yes—great friends. They were in the 
ranks together. The men love him and would follow him 
anywhere. He’s about six months senior to and a step higher 
than Mac. Did brilliantly in the revolt—seven—ten years 
ago. Since then he’s just mounted steadily. It wasn’t long 
before he’d got a district. And they’ve transferred him up 
and up all the time. His coming here is really a promotion. 



The Clash 173 

Broncho’s one of the best plums going. You’d think he 
was a god, the way people look at him.” 

“I’m not surprised,” murmured Mrs. MacFarlane, under 
her breath. “Go on, dear.” 

“He’s supposed to be a fearful martinet. Jim says he 
worships Duty and says his prayers to Discipline. They 
send all the tough nuts of the Force to him, and my dear, 
he cracks 'em. The extraordinary part of it, Jim says, is 
half of it’s done by kindness. Imagine, my dear, kindness! 
But the other half—wow! You know, ‘gentle persuasion 
first and, if that fails, the torture chamber.’ Naturally, it 
seldom fails.” 

Mrs. MacFarlane asked the question which for five min¬ 
utes had trembled, wings spread, on the tip of her tongue. 

“Is he—married?” 

“No,” answered Mrs. Jackson promptly. “Nor even en¬ 
gaged. Curious, eh? Personally, I think there’s something 
mysterious about him—desperate love affair in his youth, 
jilted or something. But Jim, who’s known him twenty 
years, says positively ‘No.’ Never cared for women at any 
time, Jim says. But I’ve my own ideas—nothing to go on, 
of course—just guesswork. Certainly he hasn’t a thought 
or glance for a woman now. Perfectly sweet but thinks only 
of his work. I don’t believe the woman lives who can move 
him!” 

“I— wonder Mrs. MacFarlane said softly. Her eyes 
were shining. “You must introduce me.” 

The sports over, the usual prize-giving and speeches fol¬ 
lowed. The Lieutenant-Governor led off in ‘short but happy 
vein.’ Followed Mr. Steven Molyneux, M. P. for Broncho 
in the Dominion House. 

His speech was clever, humourous, apt and obviously 
sincere. 

Flector watched and listened to Mr. Molyneux with in¬ 
tense interest. Until that afternoon he had never met 
Molyneux. He saw and heard him now for the first time. 

The speaker was a man of about fifty, with a neatly 
trimmed beard. Hair, beard and moustache were black, well 
powdered with grey. Once lean and hardy, he was just 


174 Spirit-of-Iron 

beginning to incline towards the soft fullness of inactivity 
and advancing years. His voice was ordinarily pleasant and 
he spoke slowly and impressively, but in addressing the 
crowd his delivery was hard and rapid, giving him an air 
of alacrity which went down well with a western audience. 
He was well dressed in the style common to the country, 
with a low white collar and a bow tie. In his hand, as he 
spoke, he waved a broad-brimmed felt sombrero and a much- 
chewed cigar, to lend force to what he said. 

The Lieutenant-Governor spoke to Hector suddenly. 

“A good speaker, Molyneux. Do you know him?” 

“No, sir, I do not. Do you?” 

“Only officially. A shrewd man. 5 ’ 

Molyneux finished his speech and took a seat amid a patter 
of applause. Inspector MacFarlane—a heavier, more stolid 
MacFarlane than the Sergeant MacFarlane of twelve good 
years before—was on Hector’s right. MacFarlane had been 
stationed in the Broncho district a long time. He should 
know Molyneux. Hector began to question him in an under¬ 
tone. 

Molyneux, it appeared, was one of those human sky¬ 
rockets common to new communities. Rising from unknown 
depths with the starting of a Broncho livery stable three or 
four years before, he had climbed rapidly into the western 
firmament to blaze suddenly forth as a prominent citizen and 
a candidate for the House at Ottawa. No one knew much 
about his past and very few cared. In a young country, 
where the oldest old-timer can count the years of his citizen¬ 
ship on two or three hands, where the scanty population is 
largely nomadic and where the vast majority concentrate 
exclusively on making use of their opportunities, a man’s 
credentials are seldom demanded and those he offers are 
accepted as genuine. Mr. Molyneux, coming from nowhere, 
had simply set up business. Cash rolling in had given him 
good standing. Popularity and more cash had given him his 
nomination. Then came the election—and there you were! 

“Doesn’t he remind you of anyone?” 

“No, sir,” said MacFarlane, surprised. “Why?” 


The Clash 175 

But Hector did not answer. He was busily delving into 
the pigeon-holes of that tenacious memory. 

Strip off fifteen years—so his thoughts ran—from the 
body, with the fat that goes with it; take away the grey 
and the dye—it’s probably dye—from the hair and most of 
the wrinkles from the face; shave off the beard; put him 
in riding rig, on a spirited horse; and- 

Vague trouble stirred in his mind as he looked at the 
politician—almost a sense of coming conflict. 

He remembered the keen-faced, lean, sinewy, tawny- 
headed man with the smooth ways and false professions of 
friendship, with whom he had waged war many years be¬ 
fore; remembered how that man had sought his life, sent 
Chester to his death and Wild Horse to the gallows; remem¬ 
bered, above all, without fear—though perhaps this memory 
was mainly responsible for his vague foreboding—the note 
left behind by that man when he drove him out of Canada: 

"You have won this time. But I will win yet. I owe 
you my ruin and, if it takes me twenty years, I’ll get even. 
Remember, I’ll get even, if it takes me twenty years.’ 

The voice—somewhat disguised—the eyes—which could 
not be disguised—and a dozen smaller things; these told 
him, against every point of reason, against all his better judg¬ 
ment, that—the Mr. Steven Molyneux of today was the Mr. 
Joseph Welland of long ago! 

As the crowd left the field after the National Anthem, 
Mrs. Jackson introduced Hector to Mrs. MacFarlane. 

ii 

On the morning following the sports Corporal Donaldson, 
the Superintendent’s teamster, came ’round to Hector’s quar¬ 
ters in the Police barracks at Broncho with his smart turn¬ 
out, a shining two-seated trap drawn by two magnificent 
roans. 

"‘Drive to Mr. Molyneux’s office,” Hector ordered. 

“Yes, sir,” said Donaldson. “Giddap there, John A.! 
Hup there, Laurier!” 



176 Spirit-of-Iron 

The equipage bowled majestically out at the gate on the 
road to Broncho. 

Hector had decided overnight to call on Molyneux for 
several reasons. His chief object was to ascertain, by diplo¬ 
matic methods, whether, as the new commander of the 
Broncho district, he could rely on the support of Mr. Moly¬ 
neux, as M. P. for that constituency, in all matters wherein 
that support was to be legitimately expected. His secondary 
object—to a certain extent dependent on the first—was to 
discover, to the best of his ability, whether Mr. Joseph 
Welland and Mr. Steven Molyneux were actually one and 
the same. 

Upon the outcome of his visit, much would depend. In 
steering his course through the uncharted waters ahead, it 
was essential for Hector to know from the outset whether 
the local M. P. could be counted friend or foe; and he was 
taking no chances. 

Hector had already heard certain allegations concerning 
Molyneux. He intended, during the interview, to test their 
truth. 

When the Mounted Police first came into the country— 
these were Hector’s reflections as he sat in the trap—the 
Northwest had been free of a certain great influence now 
beginning to make itself strongly felt. That influence might 
be summed up by the one word: ‘politics.’ The population 
was small; it was too busy to care about the details of gov¬ 
ernment; and it was glad to leave those details in the hands 
of the authorities appointed by the Crown, who were the 
instruments of a kind of benevolent autocracy. But, as time 
went on, the population increased and became more settled, 
the standard improved and British democracy demanded that 
the people should have a greater voice in the Territories. The 
years following the construction of the railway had brought 
these powers with them. The people began to send their 
own representatives to the local legislature and to Ottawa. 
The benevolent autocracy passed away and the double-headed 
monster lying beneath the surface of all representative gov¬ 
ernment began to worm its way from the East into the 


The Clash 177 

Northwest—the monster politic with the twin heads, ‘favorit¬ 
ism’ and ‘pull.’ 

Climbing gradually upward through this period of expan¬ 
sion, Hector, eyes and ears open, had come to a full realiza¬ 
tion of just what the change meant and could mean. By 
observation, he had learned something of the tremendous 
power possessed by politicians and especially of its decisive 
effect, for good or evil, on all matters affecting the govern¬ 
ment of the country. By watching the experiences of others 
and by enduring similar experiences himself, he had dis¬ 
covered that politicians can make or break not only any 
individual or group of individuals, no matter how prominent, 
no matter how worthy or efficient, who chance to be members 
of a government service, but even a whole department—an 
institution—worst of all, a regiment. And he had at last 
discovered that the life of such an individual, especially if 
he holds high authority, is apt to be one long fight for the 
preservation of himself and his subordinates from the 
machinations of the monster politic. 

From this had risen the further knowledge that, in dealing 
with politicians, the personally helpless crusader must re¬ 
member the old battle-cry, ‘He who is not for us is against 
us’—that the officer fighting for his corps under the terrible 
handicap of an oath binding him to obey political authority, 
must do everything possible not only to deal with the 
enemies already threatening it, but to prevent other poli¬ 
ticians from joining the hostile alliance, even descending, if 
necessary, to the bitter humiliation of ‘bootlicking.’ 

All this Hector had learned in his steady progress up the 
ladder. And that was why he found it necessary, this morn¬ 
ing, to visit Molyneux. 

Had he not been so utterly bound up in his work, had the 
good of his corps been further from his heart, he might 
have left Molyneux to declare himself at leisure. But for 
almost a decade now he had thought of nothing but Duty 
and Regiment. The day which had witnessed his public 
christening as ‘Spirit-of-Iron’ and had brought back his letter 
to Frances had marked a new era for him—an era when, 
convinced that his destiny lay along a lonely path without 


178 Spirit-of-Iron 

a woman’s love to brighten it, he had given himself with 
renewed ardour to his country. Changelessly true, certain 
that he could never care for anyone but Frances, he had 
waited, hoping always that she might re-enter his life, until 
the creeping years had killed the last remaining flicker of 
hope. But, though his faith in her had never wavered, though 
he always felt that she would have come to him had she been 
able, the belief had steadily grown upon him that, after all, 
she had not been meant for him. If he could not have 
Frances, he wanted no-one. With this in mind, he had 
plunged headlong into his work, making it his absorbing 
interest. Today—except for occasional moments of fierce 
regret—he thought of nothing else. Today, as a result, he 
held the reputation Mrs. Jackson had given him. 

But these years had brought him face to face with no 
tremendous personal issue. Thousands of little problems 
had confronted him in the ordinary course of duty and he 
had so dealt with them all. Nothing in the nature of some¬ 
thing predestined—an immense test, a vast struggle involv¬ 
ing, say, the whole course of his existence or the progress 
of the country—had appeared to try him. 

He was wondering now if all that had passed had been 
merely leading up to this issue. In plain words, was his big 
fight to be against—Welland? Had the events of fifteen 
years before, which had laid the foundations of a lifelong 
enmity, been as a prelude to a tremendous drama in which 
Welland—in the guise of the politician, Molyneux—and 
himself, as the champion of straight dealing—were to come 
together in terrific conflict ? 

“Who-o-a-hup, here!” 

The trap, after speeding through the fierce sunshine down 
the long, unpaved streets between the wooden shacks, past 
the bleached hotel, the banks, the red saloons, had pulled up 
before a pretentious building sheathed in imitation stone— 
weakness dressed up as strength, falsehood as truth. The 
nicely polished window bore the legend: 

STEVEN MOLYNEUX 
FLOUR AND FEED CATTLE DEALER 
MORTGAGES MONEY TO LOAN 


The Clash 


179 


A moment later the M. P. and the Mounted Police offi¬ 
cer—craft and honesty—politics and patriotism—sat face to 
face. 

The interview was apparently amiable. Hector kept him¬ 
self keyed up to the pitch of vigilance, studied the politician’s 
face closely and tried to trap him into betrayal. 

Molyneux, without gushing, was cordial. He offered 
Hector a cigar. As they lighted up, Hector opened the ball. 

“Having just assumed command of the district, Mr. Moly¬ 
neux, I called to pay my respects to the local M. P. There 
was no chance for us to chat yesterday.” 

His smile was disarming. 

“Quite so, Major. Glad to see you. Beautiful day, isn’t 
it? How long have you been here?” 

“Only since the day before yesterday.” 

“Ever been in Broncho before?” 

“Not since the revolt.” 

“Oh, yes. You were the hero of that affair.” 

“Not at all. Luck was on, my side. You’re a newcomer, 

I think?” 

“Yes, comparatively. About three years now.” 

“You got in by a big majority, Mr. Molyneux. You must 
be popular.” 

“I suppose I am.” Molyneux flashed a keen glance at 
him. “It takes it to get in nowadays. 

“Yes—and to stay in. Of course, you’re a Canadian. 
“You bet—Maritime Provinces.” 

“New to the West?” 

“No. Spent years in the Western States—even before 

the railroad.” 

“Indeed? Ranching?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you know the—Macleod country? 

Again the politician’s eyelids flickered. But Hector met 

his gaze unflinchingly. 

“You see, I spent a lot of time there myself. 

“Never been there in my life,” said Molyneux. 


180 Spirit-of-Iron 

“A grand country. I would have liked to have been posted 
to that district, I think.” 

“Oh ?” 

“Yes,” asserted Hector. “I know the people well there. 
Besides, I heard they didn’t want me here.” 

“Didn’t want you here, eh?” 

“Yes. In fact—well, it’s been said that you -” 

“Me?” 

“Yes—idiotic, isn’t it ? But it has been said that you were 
against my coming.” 

“Oh, nonsense, Major.” 

“Of course it is. I’m glad you’re behind me. I never 
doubted that you were. It makes things so much easier— 
and, of course, safer.” 

“But—but—I tell you, Major Adair, you don’t know what 
we M. P.s have got to stand for! Why, you’d think that 
the moment a man tacks ‘M. P.’ after his name he becomes 
a crook of the first water.” 

“Yes—strange, isn’t it? Never mind, Mr. Molyneux. 
Your word is good enough for me.” 

Molyneux puffed angrily at his cigar. 

“We’re going to get on well, I feel sure,” Hector went 
on. “I feel as if I’d known you years already. Together, 
we can do wonders. I want the Police here to be safe¬ 
guarded from the attacks of unscrupulous politicians— 
members of the other party, for example. The senior offi¬ 
cers are united in this desire. It’s pleasing to know I can 
count on you.” 

Molyneux looked at Hector solemnly—a hard look in his 
eyes. 

“That’s right, Major. As long as they do their duty and 
the administration in this district is efficient, they can count 
on me. And I’ve lots of power, Major—lots more than 
some people think. I control a great deal of organized-” 

Was there a threat beneath this assertion? Hector refused 
to see it. 

“Thank you, Mr. Molyneux,” he said, rising to go. “And 
you can count on me to fight any attempted political inter- 




The Clash 181 

ference in my district tooth and nail. Make the mess your 
home if you want to. Goodbye.” 

Their eyes met; then their hands. 

“Goodbye, sir, goodbye!” 

Hector was absolutely convinced now. Welland, after 
hiding himself for years in the States, had ventured back to 
Canada. Today he was Mr. Steven Molyneux. And Mr. 
Steven Molyneux had not forgotten. 

With the closing of the door on the Superintendent, the 
politician’s face changed. He pitched his cigar away sav¬ 
agely. 

A fierce thought was lacerating him : 

Had Hector discovered his identity? 

In his own mind, he was almost certain that he had. 

Much depended on the question. The memory of the ruin 
Hector had brought upon his former plans just when they 
were at the point of fulfilment was still bright within him. 
The pangs and disappointments of his struggle to advance 
under a new name in a new country, in constant fear of 
being detected and denounced, still made themselves felt. 
Venturing back to Western Canada when he thought it safe, 
in order to avail himself of the country’s greater opportuni¬ 
ties for acquiring power and wealth and to work up at the 
same time to a position whence he might easily crush Hector, 
as he had sworn, he had endured a further struggle of three 
years’ duration, a struggle which, but for Hector, had been 
unnecessary; and this struggle was too recent to be for¬ 
gotten. If Hector had actually seen through his disguise— 
a disguise so perfect that it had completely deceived all 
others—even the old-timers who had known Joe Welland— 
then, not only his own future was at stake, but the retri¬ 
bution he had promised himself would be denied him. Hector 
would unmask him, have him brought to trial, utterly break 
him and, in so doing, save himself. Had he held his hand 
so long, awaiting his chance to make Hector’s fall the more 
terrible, only to be caught in his own trap ? 

Altogether, Mr. Welland alias Molyneux was in a very 
pretty panic. He meant to smash Hector, anyway. It now 



182 Spirit-of-Iron 

behooved him to act quickly. As long as there was the least 
likelihood that Hector had discovered him, he could not rest. 
He decided to put the wheels instantly into motion. 

hi 

I am the voice of War and Fame, 

Of Truth and Might and Chivalry. 

I am the soul, I am the flame 
Of all that heroes love to see. 

I hailed the day when Rome was born, 

I watched the ancient Peoples rise, 

I sang a song of laughing scorn 
When Dissolution closed their eyes. 

Supreme zuere they one little day 

And then—their glory passed away! 

Their lips are dumb, their suns are set — 

My voice, my voice is ringing yet! 

In every age, in every land, 

When fierce and fell the battle grew, 

I bade the hard-pressed army stand, 

I steeled the yielding line anew! 

I charged the breach, I drezv the sword, 

And, when the fateful hour was come, 

Above the storm I spoke the word 

That hurled the howling squadrons home! 

In red retreat, in dread defeat, 

When Life is Death, when Death is sweet. 

When Valour reaps its golden yield, 

My voice, my voice controls the field! 

I am the voice, the brazen voice, 

The ardent voice of States and Kings. 

Let fools and dreamers cast their choice 
With milder music, softer things — 

The mistress, I, that heroes love, 

I sing the songs they leap to hear. 

A guardian spirit, poised above, 

I serve the Soldier. Year by year, 


183 


The Clash 

By day, by night, 'tis my delight 
To guide his eager steps aright . 

He lives—or dies — howe'er I will. 

My voice, my voice directs him still! 

And zvhen he sleeps at last 

Under the stainless Flag his hand defended 
On Death's dark camping-ground — 

The battle past, 

The long march ended — 

Mourning his loss with dirging fifes and drums, 
His comrades fire the harmless round 
And silence follows—Then my moment comes 
And, note by note, with music sadly splendid. 

The last to speak, my grief to tell. 

My voice the final tribute pays, 

Shatters the hush—and says 
u Farewell! . . . Farewell!'* 

‘The Song of the Trumpet/ recited with immense fervour 
by the author to the accompaniment of a ‘flourish off’ be¬ 
tween verses, though of the type at which soldiers are apt 
to sneer, began with the audience’s sympathy and ended in 
tumultuous applause. Mrs. MacFarlane, in the front row— 
she was always in the front row—turned rapturously to 
Inspector Cranbrook, her nearest companion, who, in his 
whimsical way, was entertaining her. 

“Wasn’t that just—delightful?” she cooed, flashing him 
a dazzling glance. “Now— who was that? Isn’t he hand¬ 
some? My! I never can understand how you get men like 
that in the ranks of the Police. Most policemen are so 
common.” 

“You forget this is no common corps,” Cranbrook 
laughed. 

“That’s quite smart!” she laughed, in return, patting his 
hand coquettishly. The action stirred Cranbrook strangely. 
“But tell me about him. He speaks like a gentleman— 
English; and he can recite. He seems very popular, too.” 

“Yes, he’s not bad-looking. I should think he’s public 


184 Spirit-of-Iron 

schools—Eton, Harrow, y’know. He was in my division at 
Edmonton a year ago. Name’s Humphries—a buck con¬ 
stable. Quite a card—rather wild, I’m afraid, but humour¬ 
ous all the time. Of course, he’s got a past—must have.” 

“A woman?” she questioned quickly. 

He flushed a little. 

“I suppose so. He’s too fond of ’em, I’m afraid.” 

“Can one be too fond of a woman?” she cooed. 

“It depends on the woman— of course!” he answered with 
a touch of gallantry. “There are other things—cards—and 
—er—” Suddenly realizing that he was playing traitor to 
his sex and also touching on matters best left alone, he 
switched abruptly to a former line. “Yes, he can recite, as 
you say. Writes ’em all himself, too!” 

“No —really? How romantic!” 

“Yes. Oh, he’s rather unique. Does conjuring tricks, 
plays the guitar, composes his own music for his own songs, 
and spouts Latin when he’s—when he’s under the weather.” 

Mrs. MacFarlane clasped her hands in an ecstatic and 
calculated gesture. 

“O-o-h! I do hope he comes on again.” 

“Oh, he’ll come on again.” 

The conversation flagged. Mrs. MacFarlane, for the 
twentieth time, cast furtively anxious eyes ’round the 
crowded room, with its row on row of laughing, eager men 
and girls, of mingling black and white and scarlet—scarlet 
—scarlet, the colour which made her tingle from head to 
foot. This was the C. O.’s concert—a special concert to 
welcome the new Superintendent, now with them seven days. 
Why was he not here ? 

As a matter of fact, he was there! Had she arrived 
earlier—the desire to make a sensational entrance plus natu¬ 
ral laziness had made her late—she would have seen Hector 
in the forefront. Unexpectedly called away, he had now 
returned and was at that moment chatting with Inspector 
Forshaw, his adjutant, in a corner, on the very subject of 
Humphries, the entertainer. 

“That man who just recited, Forshaw,” Hector enquired. 
“Who is he?” 


The Clash 185 

“That, sir?” Forshaw, a short, good-humoured English¬ 
man with intensely bright eyes and a round, ruddy face, 
beamed and smiled. People always smiled at mention of 
Humphries. “That’s a new man to this division. Name’s 
Humphries. Fact is, sir, he’s not much good—not exactly 
a bad hat, but wild and unreliable. Gentleman gone wrong 
—you know the sort, sir. The usual story, I expect— 
younger son—felt his oats—a girl.” 

The C. O. smiled. 

“Pm sorry. He looks whole-wool. I wonder if we can’t 
snatch the brand from the burning?” 

Between Forshaw and Hector had sprung up immense 
sympathy. Forshaw was not an old hand in the Force and 
his service had not brought him into contact with Hector— 
they had met for the first time a week ago. But he was a 
man of insight, who knew Hector by repute and had with 
him much in common. 

He immediately saw that the C. O. had become unusually 
interested in Humphries. 

“Fact is, sir, they’ve been wondering the same thing at 
Regina. They’ve transferred him to us, sir, as a sort of last 
resort, for you to discipline him.” 

Hector nodded again. The reformation of ‘bad hats’ was 
his specialty. 

“I see. Well, perhaps I can manage him.” 

“I’m certain you can, sir,” said Forshaw quickly. “You 
know, he’s clever, in his own way—probably a lot in him. 
Rather extraordinary humourist. The story goes,”—the 
Adjutant’s face radiated merriment—“that he was a remit¬ 
tance man before he enlisted. You know what that means!” 

“So that’s the style of fellow he is?” said Hector. “Well, 
bring him in, in the morning. Mr. Humphries had better 
make my acquaintance before it’s too late.” 

Hector parted with the Adjutant and walked forward. 
Mrs. MacFarlane saw him coming. Cranbrook had left his 
seat on an errand for her. Her heart beating curiously, all 
eyes upon her, she beckoned Hector to the vacant place. He 
smiled abstractedly and sat down. 

The next number started. It was a comic song of the 


186 Spirit-of-Iron 

red-nosed variety. Mrs. MacFarlane hated the song, the 
comedian, the vulgar crowd that roared at the jokes. She 
wanted to talk to Hector. But her companion was laughing 
quite as heartily as the rest of them and she felt obliged to 
conceal her annoyance and laugh with him. 

The number concluded, Hector turned to her. 

“You didn’t seem to care for that song, Mrs. MacFar¬ 
lane.” 

She started. 

“What amazing insight you’ve got, Major!” she declared. 
“I thought I’d fooled everyone.” 

“You’re a clever actress,” he said, quietly bantering. “But 
I saw through you.” 

“It’s just terrible to be so transparent! That’s why I’m 
always natural.” 

“It’s the best policy,” said Hector gravely. “Besides, 
when one is so naturally charming-” 

The gallantry caressed her and, pussylike, she purred. 

“Thank you, sir! Really, for a woman-hater-” 

“A woman-hater? Who gave me that reputation?” 

He was looking at her keenly with just a hint of amuse¬ 
ment. Unable to fathom his mood, she compromised. 

“Oh, there just seems to be an impression ’round—nothing 
definite—that you don’t care for the sex. But I—just 
guessed.” 

“You're the penetrating one now, madam!” he jested. 
“As a matter of fact, you’re quite wrong. Truly, I don’t 
hate women.” 

“Honest In’jun?” she smiled. “Then”—dropping her 
voice—“why have you avoided me so often?” 

“Avoided — you?’’ Real astonishment seemed to move 
him. He was at a loss now. Was she serious? “Oh, but 
you’re joking.” 

“No, I,’m not,” she pouted. “You’ve passed me on the 
parade-ground dozens of times without a word. You’ve seen 
me at the window when you inspect in the morning-” 

“Mrs. MacFarlane”—he still smiled but his tones were 
earnest—“if I’ve ever passed you without speaking, it was 





The Clash 187 

because I was in a hurry. And you know, of course, on 
parade-” 

“I know, I know,” she laughed reassuringly. It was not 
safe to go too far; and the limit had been reached. “But 
don’t crush me more than you can help. Nothing hurts a 
woman more than to be utterly overlooked by a handsome 
man.” 

Her eyes fawned over him. He deliberately let the com¬ 
pliment pass. 

“At least you’ll admit, now, I’m not a woman-hater?” 

“U-m-m!” She was still doubtful. Then, insinuatingly, 
with a languid glance, “Perhaps not. But your heart—has 
it ever been-?” 

He read the rest: ‘Has your heart ever been given in 
vain ?’ This was an outrageous probing into a hidden wound 
no-one had ever dared before. After the first shock, an 
impulse to put her violently in her place, as he well knew 
how to do, flashed upon him. But he was too chivalrous 
for that—and besides, it would betray his secret. So he 
answered with a smile: 

“No, never.” 

“Never ?” 

She lifted her eyes and cooed the word. Cleopatra caught 
Mark Antony by such methods. 

“Never.” 

“Oh, I can’t believe that. Major, you were made—just 
made—to be a hero of romance.” 

“Do you think so?” 

He was ironically amused. 

“Yes, I do. Many’s the pretty woman who has kissed 
your feet.” Figuratively speaking, it was quite true, and 
Hector knew it. She laughed merrily, a hand on his arm. 
“Listen: I’m going to do something no-one’s ever had the 
grit to do before!” 

“You’ve done that already.” 

She was entertaining him, in a way. 

“Have I ? Oh, good. Well, listen—how your men would 
admire me if they knew what I presumed to say!—but it’s 
for your good. Major, don’t be a monk—a hermit. When 




188 Spirit-of-Iron 

a pretty woman comes along, don’t shut your eyes. Pretty 
women and handsome men are made for one another!” 

Her intense womanliness, her warmth, brightness, colour, 
perfume, were very near him. Despite himself, he felt their 
presence and a hint of their allurement. He was a strong 
man, physically- 

But he answered, rather stiffly: 

“Thank you!” 

The concert rolled on. She looked at her programme: 

‘Song: accompanied by guitar: ‘A Game of Cards / Con¬ 
stable Humphries' 

“Oh, it’s that sweet thing again!’’ she breathed in Hector’s 
ear. “Don’t you think he’s wonderful?” 

“Very!” 

The C. O., from Olympus, to please her, looked down 
upon the Marquis, his wayward servant, and tossed him a 
kindly though untruthful word. 

In a flutter of applause, the Marquis climbed easily and 
confidently to the platform. He was a slim young man, 
black-haired and bronzed, with a short black moustache, 
beneath which his teeth flashed, white and even, when he 
smiled. His features were very straight and regular. His 
eyes looked upon the audience with a kind of bitter humour, 
as of one who has tasted Life’s dregs and bravely bluffs 
that he has liked them. One glance at the Marquis told 
Mrs. MacFarlane that every word she had heard of him 
was true. 

He carried a guitar and wore the plain scarlet tunic, blue 
breeches with yellow stripes and top-boots of a constable. 

Dropping carelessly into a chair in the centre of the plat¬ 
form, and smiling sardonically, he began to sing and play. 
He had a quiet baritone which he used as only an artist can. 
The tune was the strangest affair, whimsical, yet full of 
tragedy and the guitar laughed and wept by turns in his 
mobile hands. 

All the irony of broken hearts, false pledges, loves out¬ 
raged and forgotten, was in the song, the music, the agonized 
but laughing voice: 



189 


The Clash 

The maid was fair as a maid could be — 

Queen of a hundred hearts was she — 

And out of the shuffling pack she knew 
She drew a suitor she thought might do 
(A common habit of flighty maids). 

The lucky card was the Jack of Spades — 

As poor as a rat but fair of face, 

A humble fcllozv who knew his place, 

So she gave him her hand when he made his plea, 
Thus raising the fool to an ecstasy. 

But another person lived in the pack, 

The handsome, rollicking Diamond Jack — 

I think you’ll find, when my tale you’ve heard, 

The Knave of Diamonds the better word. 

It’s easy to see how the tricks turned out, 

For Diamonds are trumps the world about. 

She flung the Jack and his ring away, 

Which wasn’t exactly the game to play, 

And, crushed and broken, she left him there — 

But—what in the Deuce should the Lady caref 

Then slowly, on a dying note of laughter, the last line was 
repeated, to trail away into silence: 

—What in the Deuce should the Lady care? 

And in a flash the Marquis was off the platform. 

“Well, what a funny song!” Mrs. MacFarlane declared, 
applauding vigourously. “I’m sure there’s a lot in it, Major. 
Probably it refers to something in his past—don’t you 
think so?” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

Again the ironical note struck her. 

“You’re laughing at me,” she sulked prettily. “You 
shouldn’t!—if we’re going to be the good friends we ought 
to be.” 

Before Hector could reply, MacFarlane came up. He was 
obviously throbbing with jealousy. 

Mrs. MacFarlane read his mood and was secretly amused. 


190 


Spirit-of-Iron 

She loved to torment him. But she made no reference to 
his annoyance. 

“So glad you’ve come, old Mac,” she said, hand out¬ 
stretched. 

Though he had interrupted her tete-a-tete with Hector, 
she forgave him. She felt that she had done a good night’s 
work already. 

In the morning Hector interviewed the talented Marquis 
and warned him to be a good boy. The Marquis promised 
that he would. 


Chapter II 


i 

The Superintendent’s servant, Constable Blythe, was lay¬ 
ing out his master’s mess uniform. The hour was six o’clock 
in the evening. A fortnight had passed since the holding of 
the concert. 

Constable Blythe was a man of middle age and not ill- 
looking, originally hailing from some one of Her Majesty’s 
far-flung Dominions—no-one knew which. Like many other 
Mounted Policeman, he had adventured into a thousand 
strange places and a dozen queer trades before joining the 
Force. Of these earlier phases of his history, little was 
known. But full details of his service in Her Majesty’s 
forces, which he had embellished for many years in other 
climes, were available to those who sought them. And 
Blythe, though of a naturally silent disposition, had no 
aversion to furnishing these details. In fact, when intro¬ 
duced to the riding-school, he had proclaimed them at full 
voice. The horse had gently removed him. 

“Here, I thought you said you could ride?” thundered the 
riding master. 

“What, me?” shrieked Blythe indignantly. “I’m a marine, 
Gord boil yer, not a cent-ure!” (He possibly meant ‘cen¬ 
taur’). 

Result: brought up before the C. O.—who happened to 
be Hector—for using insubordinate language to his superior 
officer. 

“I can’t ride, sir!” he had pleaded tearfully—for a Blythe, 
he was at all times the most lugubrious man in the world— 
“They don’t have ’em on board ship. I’m a Royal Marine, 
sir!” 

“Then you shouldn’t have joined a mounted corps.” Hec¬ 
tor’s lips closed like a vise. “C. B. and more riding for you, 
my lad.” 


191 


192 Spirit-of-Iron 

But when Blythe had demonstrated his point conclusively 
by being bucked off for months on end, Hector at last took 
pity on him. A credit to the Royal corps, he did everything 
else beautifully and, like all Marines, knew the duties of an 
officer’s servant backwards. That was four years ago. And 
Blythe had served him devotedly ever since. 

Hector came in. 

Blythe jumped to attention. 

“Well, Blythe—” with a nod towards the carefully folded 
paper, purchased ten minutes before, Hector pronounced the 
usual formula, “is there anything interesting in the Prophet 
tonight ?” 

But Blythe for once did not make the usual response: 
‘Nothin’ to speak of, sir.’ Instead, with considerable agita¬ 
tion, sternly suppressed, he answered, as he drew off Hector’s 
coat: 

“Bit on the front page, sir, about us. P’raps you’ve 
seen it?’’ 

“No. Where is it?” 

Blythe handed over the paper. Hector’s face grew dark 
with the severity that could make a division tremble. 

Splashed across the page was the heading: ‘Do New 
Brooms Always Sweep Clean?’ 

And, beneath the heading, this paragraph: 

‘According to the old saw, “New Brooms Always Sweep 
Clean.” We think this saying needs revision. We are led 
to think so by the strange slackening of the bonds of dis¬ 
cipline which until lately held a certain instrument of the 
law quartered in Broncho in constant control. Last night, 
our pride in the organization to which we refer received a 
rude shock. Details are not necessary. The outrageous con¬ 
duct of the member of this force, who reeled up and down 
Main St., using the most blasphemous language and shooting 
up the town, until gathered in by the patrol nearly an hour 
afterwards, is too fresh in our memories to require full de¬ 
scription. This is only one of the many incidents which, 
since the change in command was made, we have shudder- 
ingly anticipated. We do not blame the men. We blame 
the leader.’ 


The Clash 193 

The paragraph, as Hector, of course, knew, dealt with 
the ‘outrageous conduct’ of the Marquis, who, on the previ¬ 
ous night, had enjoyed, for the first time since his trans¬ 
ference to Broncho, a spree in town and who was now in 
the cells, awaiting punishment. Equally, of course, the 
‘leader’ referred to was himself. 

Following his first interview with the M. P. for Broncho, 
Hector had set going a part of the complicated machinery 
which was at his disposal, as a Police officer, with the object 
of discovering Molyneux’s true identity. These investiga¬ 
tions had proven fruitless. It is not easy to trace a man’s 
antecedents back through utter obscurity to a point fifteen 
years’ distant; and Welland—if it was Welland—had cov¬ 
ered his tracks too well. Hector had learned that no-one— 
not even Jim Jackson or MacFarlane—connected the suc¬ 
cessful politician of Broncho with the unsuccessful criminal 
Hector had driven from the country. Why should they? 
Without a scrap of real evidence, Hector had realized that 
he could do nothing to denounce his man. Yet he was abso¬ 
lutely certain that Molyneux was Welland. Since their first 
meeting, he had observed many things, small in themselves 
but great in the aggregate, which his tenacious memory 
recognized as traits of the one-time cattle-thief and whiskey- 
smuggler. But, failing definite evidence which would hold 
in a court of law, he knew that he must treat him, not for 
what he had been, but for what he was. He must deal with 
Molyneux, at least outwardly, as Molyneux, not as Welland. 
The fight—if fight it was to be—must of necessity be fought 
with the weapons, not of the past, but of the present. 

And this paragraph told him definitely that fight there 
was to be. It was his business to know how the Prophet was 
controlled; and he knew that it was controlled by Molyneux’s 
party, if not by Molyneux himself, and was edited by one 
of Molyneux’s friends. That was enough. On the surface, 
to those who knew not Molyneux’s true identity, the para¬ 
graph represented a well-merited—or cowardly, according to 
their lights—attack on Superintendent Adair by a paper sup¬ 
porting—or, as some knew, virtually controlled by—the poli¬ 
tician. But actually, as Hector knew, and Welland knew, 


194 Spirit-of-Iron 

but no-one else knew or would know, it was the opening shot 
in the ex-criminal’s campaign of revenge. 

On Welland’s side, this paragraph told him, the tactics 
were to be slander, veiled insinuation, deceit cunningly em¬ 
ployed in constant endeavour to catch him at a disadvantage 
and fierce condemnation of any open error in his adminis¬ 
tration, all tending ultimately to drive Hector out of the 
Force. On Hector’s side, because his hands were tied by 
his position, he could hope only to match his wits with Wel¬ 
land’s whenever an opportunity, real or maliciously created, 
for an attack by the politician should occur and to frustrate 
Welland by doing his work so well that there could be no 
complaint. The stake was, on one hand, personal revenge 
for what had been, in Welland’s eyes, a wrong; on the other, 
Hector’s personal honour and the honour and welfare of his 
men; the issue, Politics versus Patriotism. 

This was the conflict which Hector felt approaching as he 
read that paragraph in the Prophet. 

Remembering the issue, and holding the item as at least 
a malicious and exaggerated attack on his own men, whom 
it was his duty to protect, he felt hot resentment boil through 
him. Then his thought went to the Marquis, who had given 
the paper—and Welland—this opening, the drunken waster 
he was to reform. Men like that brought discredit on any 
corps! 

The Marquis was ‘for it.’ ‘It’ was ‘coming to him/ 

ii 

A few days after the Marquis had been banished to the 
cells for his misdeeds, Blythe sprang a second surprise on 
his C. O. Hector came in to change for mess. 

“Beg pardon, sir, but—but a girl’s waitin’ to see you— 
been here all afternoon.’’ 

“A girl?” asked Hector. “What does she want?” 

“She wouldn’t say, sir.” 

“Well, tell her to see me at the Orderly Room in the 
morning.” 

“I told her that, sir, but she says it’s privit’, sir. Wants 


The Clash 


195 

to see you alone, sir. I told her to go, but she swore she’d 
wait. ‘No women allowed in barracks after Retreat/ I says. 
‘Garn, chase yerself. Yon go an* retreat!’ she says. 7 ’m 
goin’ to see Major Adair.’ 

“All right. Show her in.” 

The girl was very young and not bad-looking. She was, 
in fact, pretty, with big eyes, clear complexion and blue- 
black hair. She wore a home-made dress of more or less 
fashionable cut and a saucy little hat trimmed with a mar¬ 
vellous assortment of flowers. 

Her air, on entering, was one of bravado, but a glance at 
Hector quite banished it and she hesitated, nervously entwin¬ 
ing her hands, near the door. Blythe surveyed her with 
ill-concealed triumph. She had been very bold until con¬ 
fronted by the great ‘Spirit-of-Iron’ himself. Where was 
that boldness now? 

“Well, young lady,” said Hector kindly, “What can I do 
for you? Come in and sit down, won’t you?” 

Still she hesitated. 

Finally, in a husky whisper, she answered, “Please, sir, 
I’d rather stand.” 

“All right,” he replied good-humouredly. “But won’t you 
tell me what you want?” 

“It’s—it’s private. I wanta see you—alone.” 

She glanced maliciously at Blythe. 

“Leave us for a moment, please, Blythe,” said Hector. 

“Yessir.” 

“Now my girl—but first—what’s your name?” 

She took a few steps forward. His quiet voice and 
friendly eyes gave her confidence. 

“My name’s Nellie—Nellie Lavine. I’m a waitress at the 
Golden West Cafe (she pronounced it ‘Kaif’), an’ I’ve come 
—about—about one o’ your men, Major Adair.” 

“Yes?” 

“Gennlemun by name Mr. Humphries.” 

The Marquis! What the devil had he been up to ? In¬ 
stantly Hector’s mind flashed to the Marquis, in the cells. 

“He’s—he’s—my—my beau—my fellow.” 

She challenged and defied him with her eyes. 


198 Spirit-of-Iron 

“I congratulate—er—Mr. Humphries on his good taste. 
Are you his—girl?” 

She simpered. 

“Ye-yes. That’s to say—well, I’m darn sure he’s mine. 
That pink-faced little goo-goo at Young’s dance-hall; an’ 
that Smith kid—father’s a rancher an’ she wears cow-gal 
clothes an’ thinks she owns the place— they say he’s theirs . 
But he ain’t. He’s mine, ’cause he says so.” 

She finished on a note of triumph. 

“Well, in that case,” Hector smiled, “it must be so. Go 
on.” 

He was wondering if tragedy lay ahead. 

“Mr. Humphries—he’s my fellow. An’—an’—you’ve put 
him in jug, Major Adair!” 

The last was an accusation meant to wither him; but, 
somehow, it failed. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Lavine. I had to.” 

“Had to?” 

“Yes. The regulations lay down certain penalties for 
drunkenness and I have to carry them out.” 

“But, Major—the poor boys—” 

“Are fine boys. But thoroughbreds need the strong hand. 
Now, don’t work yourself up, young lady. You can’t under¬ 
stand.” 

“I think—you’re—damn crool!” she whimpered, feeling 
herself beating against an immense stone wall. “You— 
might—give him a chance!” 

“Did he send you here to plead for him ?” Hector flashed. 

“No, he didn’t! No 

She stamped her foot. 

“All right,” he said quietly. “I believe you—otherwise I 
wouldn’t listen. You think I might give him a chance?” 

“Please, sir.” 

Penitent she was now and supplicating in her woman’s 
way. 

“He’s had lots of chances—lots of chances. Do you think 
he’s worth all this?” 

“Sure he is.” She was very confident. “And, anyway— 
I love him.” 


The Clash 197 

“How long have you known him—he’s only been here 
about three weeks, remember.” 

“About—that, I guess,” she faltered. “But I know he’s 
all right. He’s a gennelmun—a real one—an’ all he needs 
is a chance.” 

“You’re a stout little lover,” said Hector gently. “But 
he’s a hard one to save. Is that what you’re trying to do?” 

She hung her head. 

“Yes,” she whispered. Then, pleadingly, “Oh, Major,— 
please, Major—if you’d ever loved like I do—” 

“How do you know I have not?” he asked. 

“All the better, then! Oh, Gee, I’m crazy about him— 
just crazy—an’ he is, too—about me, I mean. Why, he 
writes pomes to me!” 

“Does he?” Hector thought of the Marquis’ reputation 
as a lady-killer and wondered how many women could say 
the same thing. “May I see one?” 

“Ah-ah—s-a-y—!” 

“Come along,” he encouraged, “as proof!” 

“There!” 

From the bosom of her dress she fished a sachet. Out of 
this she extracted a bit of paper, which she handed over to 
Hector, smiling prettily. Then she walked away to hide her 
confusion in the shadows. 

Hector read, in the strong handwriting of the Marquis: 

The land was still, by parching drought possessed — 

A desert waste. From out the sullen sky 
The sun beat down. Her burnt and barren breast 
Lay naked to his wrath. She longed to die — 
Exhausted, now by months of endless pain. . . . 

Till, suddenly, the far horizon’s rim 
Trembled with lightning and the day grew dim, 

Great thunders rolled and, roaring, then — the rain! 

And lo! Where sorrow thrived and death had been, 
Gladness and life returned. The hopeless herds 
Came drifting back and all the land was green, 
Fragrant and fresh and loud with singing birds 


198 


Spirit-of-Iron 

Returning thanks . . . . O, say you understand. . . . 
The rain,—it was your love; my heart the land! 

Could the Marquis, after all, be genuinely in love with 
this girl? 

“Thank you, Miss Lavine.” 

He returned the paper. She took it hastily. Pier eyes 

shone. 

“Well?” she asked. 

“I’m satisfied. But—won’t you take my warning?” 

“Say, I can look after myself. I wasn’t born yesterday!” 

There was some pique in her voice. 

“Weren’t you?” he asked quaintly. Then, suddenly, he 
rose and stood beside her. “Listen, little girl. I’m trying 
to save Humphries myself.” 

“Eh—Oh, Major—” She looked at him delightedly. 
“Gee, you’re a good scout! An’ I thought I was scart of 
you!” 

Hector smiled faintly. 

“You want me—to be easier on him in future?” 

“That’s it, please, sir!” 

“Then we’ll do our best to pull him up—together. But 
it’s a secret, mind you!” 

“Oh, Gee—” she began again. 

“A secret, remember ! Good-bye !” 

He held out his hand. She clasped it swiftly. 

“By golly, Major—you’re—” she exclaimed rapturously. 

“That’ll do!” he answered. “Good-bye.” 

“I wonder what he really is?” he asked himself, when the 
girl had gone. “Sound at heart or—?” 

“Well, I’ll spare him for a bit,” he decided. “Till he really 
does kick over the traces.” 

But something soon altered that resolution. 

hi 

The window of Hector’s den commanded a view of the 
married officers’ quarters, and of the back door of Mac- 
Farlane’s house, which was nearest. 


It w 
turbed 
distant 
denly t 
lightly, 
as it em 
Hecto: 
played tl 
had taker 
kitchen. ' 

Present 
and the I 
sing a rid 

Senor-ee-t 
Carambi 
When you 
You mai 
Senor-ee-ta 
I tell you 
Yll be mit y 
T omato —. 

“The idiot 
smiling. 

The Marqu 
silence. 

Presently Ht 
window and the 
“Oh, Al-ice! 

Alice was Mac^ 
cook. 

“Alice! A-a-lice 
The window was 
“Wot, you ’ere ag 
The voice was repi 
“Were, Alice— wert 
“Well, why ’aven’t y 
“My dear Alice, dut> 
the Big Chief, y’know.” 


“Goin’ 

lecture. 


j for my 

ince pies 
ds—■” 

! They’re 

ily. “It’s 

id: 

those pies 

Missus is 

in, thickly, 

i, my dear.” 
led her pass- 
•. “Y’re not 

n’t preach.” 


at he wiped his 

Gods! But tell 
iw song ? Com- 
omantic, eh?” 
pettishly. 


a, Alice.” 


ddelity—like me. Shall 


I sing 
you’re 
mount* 
night— 
sank ah 
“Ye-« 

*Ear-ala 
The g 

5 

It 

Se 

At: 


{ 

Again ca 
“1 do lov< 

Hector’s i 
Lavine. Th 
been with h 
now his Serg 
“This Hum 
“Well, sir,’ 
of privileged . 
Slide-out, he h; 
not actresses—t 
After that, T •. 
next that gentlei 
But again Fatt 


Once more the S 
the so-called Mr. I 
to face. 


iir last 

a 

id. As 
Dnfident 
i might 

. bolder, 
ler parts 
:essantly 
far, had 
were too 
time was 
nself. In 
Secondly, 
.dermined. 
m miners, 
g on some 
nat’s so! I 
*e might be 
>owerless to 
rk by occa- 
ector. Like 
.ng wasps in 
ir on several 

us barb, quite 
aining a series 
ipired. Hector 
him so and to 

i, face and body 
d. 

jerpetrated by the 
r attacks so much 
Naturally, he spoke 
ny politician under 
would have spoken 


' he asserted forcibly. 

d 


The Clash 208 

“Whether the motive is honest or not, it shakes the faith of 
the people in the Force. Even if the item is accurate and 
the attacks are justified, it still shakes the faith of the people. 
It makes our work ten times more difficult. Take some of 
these attacks on the conduct of our men. They make for 
discontent in the ranks because they are false and because 
the men can do nothing to protect themselves. The best 
regiment in the world has an occasional drunk in it. But it 
resents fiercely an allegation classifying every man in the 
regiment with that drunk. Now, that’s what has been hap¬ 
pening here lately. Not long ago, you’ll remember, one of 
our fellows shot up the town. Well, he did wrong. He 
was dealt with. And, mark my words, if I don’t break him, 
the men will. They always do. They’ll drive him out of 
the Force. Then isn’t that good enough? No; the papers 
must immediately raise an uproar against the man, against 
the Force, against me. They forget what these men do. On 
duty they risk death. They endure awful loneliness in 
places where they never see a card, a drink, a woman. If 
occasionally—they overstep themselves when they return— 
what wonder ? But no consideration is given that side of the 
case. I’m not defending irregularities. They’re wrong. 

But the man to deal with them is here -” he tapped his 

breast, “not down in the offices of the Prophet. Do you 
blame me if I resent these intrusions?” 

Welland, without removing his cigar, said: 

“Well, / can’t stop it, Major! What do you want me 
to do?” 

There was leering triumph in the assertion. 

“When we first met, Mr. Molyneux, you promised me your 
support.” 

“Yes. And I said I’d go for any inefficiency. I’ve done it.” 

“Always without justification.” 

“That’s your opinion.” 

“And the truth. I want to be friends with you. Leave your 
share in the assault out of it.” Hector swallowed the humble 
pie — w ith a great effort—for the good of his cause. “I want 
your help—not for myself—if this thing goes on, I can 
fight it alone-” The politician, observing the great chest 




204 Spirit-of-Iron 

and shoulders and the steel-coloured eyes in the rugged 
face, felt a sharp sense of his opponent’s indomitable 
strength. “Your help—to stop as much of this unjust criti¬ 
cism as possible. That will improve efficiency, stamp out crime 
and leave the men—my men—alone. You don’t know my 
point of view, Molyneux. I hold every man in my divi¬ 
sion-” he spoke very earnestly and quietly—“in the hol¬ 

low of my hand. I can make their lives Heaven or Hell. 
Knowing this, they look to me for justice. I try to give it. 
They look to me for protection. By God, they’re going to 
have it!” 

His fist crashed on the table. 

“You were saying—about me-?” said Molyneux 

smoothly. 

“I want your help—no, not your help, but simply justice 
from you, that’s all. I want you, for example, to muzzle 
the Prophet ” 

“I don’t control the Prophet. The Editor’s a friend of 
mine but I’ve got little influence with him. Don’t ask im¬ 
possibilities, Major.” 

Hector knew that Molyneux lied. But, again, he had to * 
accept the assertion. 

“I believe you could point out this to him. His campaign 
goes too far when it publishes such an item as this about 
Demon George, the American outlaw. It’s really that item 
I came to see you about.” 

“Have you got it there ? Read it.” 

“No, I won’t read it. It’s just the worst of the series on 
that particular subject. You know what they all amount to: 
‘This outlaw, who killed four men in Texas five years ago, 
has appeared in town. He has been recognized. Broncho is 
in a panic. Yet the Mounted Police don’t arrest him. Why? 
They must have descriptions, etc., etc. They ought to have 
done so as soon as he entered the district. The truth prob¬ 
ably is that they have not even discovered his presence. 
Asleep at the switch, as usual. Or they think it wiser to 
avoid his guns. This could not have happened before the 
change in command.’ That’s about the sum total of it all.” 

“Do you want to know what I think 1 of that, Major Adair ?” 




The Clash 205 

asked the politician abruptly. “While I don’t agree with all 
that dirty stuff about your being afraid of this outlaw and 
so on—I consider that item and those that accompanied it 
justified. In fact, I suggested it myself. Again, understand, 

I had nothing to do with the dirty side; but I suggested the 
publication. Men who knew Demon George came to me 
and told me he was in town. I waited to see if you were 
sharp enough to spot him. Days passed and you took no 
action, when you ought to have jugged him at once. Then «■ 
I gave the facts to the Prophet , advising them to send a 
reporter up to you to see if you knew of that man’s presence. 
The reporter was told to say nothing, I believe, but just to 
sound you out. He saw you personally. You knew nothing. 
That convinced the Editor you were asleep. So he pub¬ 
lished that attack. I think, in the main, it was deserved. 
Why, even now, that bird is still in town, letting on as if he 
owns it and everyone was afraid of him. The paper opened 
your eyes. But you’ve done nothing yet. That’s what I 
call inefficiency.” 

The politician had thrown down his cards with a ven¬ 
geance ! 

“So that’s how the land lies?” said Hector. It was his 
turn now. “Listen to me, Mr. Molyneux. I believe you’re 
sincere but I’m going to show you just where you went 
wrong, sir. Take this in a friendly spirit, please. As a 
prominent man here, it was your duty to advise me of this 
man’s arrival. Had it been necessary, I could then have ar¬ 
rested him. As it is, you send—or your Editor friend 
sends—a reporter and he more or less asks me if there are 
any sensational arrests in prospect or any distinguished 
criminals in town. We don’t give such information, Mr. 
Molyneux, unless the net is already so closely round our man 
that publication can do no harm. Naturally, I sent the re¬ 
porter away. Immediately you jump at conclusions and the 
Prophet publishes the news of Demon George’s arrival and 
says I’m asleep—either way, with bad effect. Demon George 
is told that his presence is known and so warned to make his 
getaway if he wants to. Or it makes him perky, encourages 
him to stay on here in defiance of me and perhaps, eventually. 


206 Spirit-of-Iron 

to break the law. Supposing he gets away? Then the 
Prophet is delighted. An outlaw has escaped, but that 
doesn’t matter, because they can say T told you so !’ and go 
for me again. Supposing he stays and breaks the law ? An 
innocent party suffers! Wouldn’t it have been better for 
you to have advised me of this man’s presence, so that his 
capture might be assured ?” 

In spite of himself, the politician shifted uneasily under 
the keen gaze. 

“Let me tell you why Demon George is still at liberty. 
As it happens, I was immediately informed as soon as he 
set foot in the place. But I had nothing to arrest him on— 
no description from the States—remember, the crime is five 
years old—nothing but insinuations from men who might 
owe him a grudge. I took the best course open to me, Mr. 
Molyneux, under the circumstances—wired the Yankee offi¬ 
cials, did my best to keep the thing dark—unfortunately, 
the Prophet spoilt my plan—and had the man constantly 
shadowed. So far I’m still waiting for news—Texas is a 
long way off, five years a long time. But Demon George 
has obligingly remained in town, out of bravado, and sooner 
or later will give me grounds for arresting him. Or, if he 
tries to leave, I’ll jail him on suspicion. The Prophet hasn't 
made a fool of me—only of itself !” 

The politician was utterly at a loss. He saw that his shot 
had missed. As soon as the American outlaw was actually 
in jail, Hector’s apparent apathy would be explained. The 
citizens of Broncho, at present worked up to some hostility, 
would see that the Superintendent had done right and had 
been at all times conversant with every move of Demon 
George. They would swing round to their old love and the 
Prophet would be discredited. 

Unable, for the moment, to meet the situation, Welland 
assumed the friendliest aspect and said: 

“Well, Major, I congratulate you. I was wrong. Now, 
what do you want me to do ?” 

Hector took his triumph quietly. 

“Keep the Prophet quiet till I’ve landed Demon George. 
And prevent similar blunders in future,” he answered. 


The Clash 207 

“I told you I don’t control the Prophet,” said Welland. 
“So I can’t promise. But I’ll do my best.” 

“That’s all I want,” replied Hector, rising. “I knew you’d 
help. Goodbye.” 

With Hector’s departure, Welland sat down to think. 
The interview had shocked him severely. His opponent was 
not going to go down tamely, he saw that. Moreover, he 
was apparently confident that he could defend himself single- 
handed. Welland had honestly believed that in the matter 
of Demon George, Hector had been caught napping. Fur¬ 
thermore, Hector’s appeal for silence, while humbling the 
Superintendent, acted as a drag on Welland for the future. 
After what Hector had said, he could not very well continue 
his attacks. He wanted Demon George to escape, so that 
the Prophet's campaign might deeply impress the people. But 
his escape now seemed impossible. 

Presently, however, the politician took heart. Had the 
outlaw not been closely watched, he would have warned him, 
so that the escape might be brought about, but the Police 
would certainly trace back that warning to its source—him¬ 
self. That would never do. A better course would be to 
urge on the Phophet anew. Demon George might thus be 
warned and the people be further incited against Hector. 
He had said that he could not muzzle the paper and had no 
direct control over it—a lie; but Hector, he argued, did not 
know it a lie. He could tell Hector that his efforts to 
silence his Editor friend had failed. And, whether the out¬ 
law was or was not taken, further damage might still be done 
to Hector. The Prophet could wriggle out of its own trap 
afterwards, if necessary. 

“By God, he hasn’t won yet!” 

Whereupon he scrawled secret instructions to the Prophet 
for a renewal of the ‘Demon George campaign.’ 

v 

The moon lay white on the barracks and ‘Lights Out’ had 
long since sounded. The Marquis, having escaped detection 


208 Spirit-of-Iron 

with that unfathomable cunning common to drunken men, 
climbed in at the open window of his own barrack-room and 
crept over to his cot—safe! 

No-one had been disturbed by his entry. But for the even 
breathing of his sleeping comrades, all was quiet. His brain 
was twirling a roseate heaven full of lights and music. 
He was very happy. He did not feel like going to bed. 
He wanted to sing. Many tunes and pictures were dancing 
madly in his head—strains and scenes culled from happenings 
of the night—from days long past, too. Now he was drinking 
with a ring of convivial punchers, now with a group of Sand¬ 
hurst cadets. Ripping place, Sandhurst had been—jolly 
rags- 

The thought of ‘rags’ suddenly gave him the diabolical 
idea: ‘Haven’t had a rag for a hick of a time. Why not 
now?’ But what? What? Suddenly came glorious in¬ 
spiration. He was said to have once ‘shot up’ the town. 

Well, why not-? And Bacchus answered, ‘Why not, old 

chap, why not ?’ 

First—in a colossal struggle—he removed his boots. Then 
he tip-toed from cot to cot. The moonlight, streaming in, 
enabled him to see quite plainly and his comrades slept on 
with miraculous tenacity. From the head of each cot he 
removed the occupant’s weapons—carbine and revolver— 
and all his ammunition. He heaped the carbines and their 
ammunition under his own bed. The revolvers he carefully 
loaded and set in rows on the bed, together with the surplus 
revolver ammunition. By the time he was finished—it took 
a long time—he had cornered every weapon in the room. 

“By Jove,” he told himself joyously, “this’ll make old 
Spit-an’-Polish sit up!” 

The Marquis’ first shot stirred the hair of the corporal 
in charge and lodged in the wall behind. The second rang 
with a bell-like note against the cot of the next man. Then 
he blazed off a string of shots, each in the general direction 
of a cot, so that he traversed the whole room. Drunk as he 
was, the Marquis did not shoot to kill. He aimed only to 
miss—closely. His aim was wonderfully accurate. Whiskey 
improved it. In moderation, whiskey often performs such 




The Clash 209 

miracles. The Marquis was not ‘blind’—merely inebriated. 

The corporal in charge, uttering one wild yell, bounced 
out of bed and glanced, bewildered, round the room. The 
men sat up in turn, making a thousand blasphemous com¬ 
ments. Was it fire or had another revolt broken out? The 
Marquis sent a shot between the corporal’s agitated legs and 
accelerated his fire. That was enough. The corporal went 
to ground under his cot and the men followed his example. 

Followed a moment’s silence, painful after the uproar of 
the firing. Some of the men, putting forth ventursome heads, 
spotted the well-known figure, squatting on his bed like a 
pirate on a sea-chest, a smoking revolver in each hand, a 
devilishly happy smile on his handsome face. 

“It’s the Marquis, fellows!” 

“You bet it is!” the Marquis grinned, showing his white 
teeth, “I’m in command of this-hic- outfit! Take cover!” 

Once more the storm of bullets roared. Every head van¬ 
ished as if shot back by a common string. 

“Haven’t any of you got a gun?” the corporal asked 
plaintively. 

“Not me, corp. Not me,” ran through the room. 

“No, sir. I’ve got ’em all, Corporal!” laughed the Mar¬ 
quis, emphasizing his remark with a shot that gouged the 
floor near the N. C. O.’s bed. 

This was a pretty situation. They were at the mercy of a 
drunken lunatic. 

The Marquis began the National Anthem, firing a shot in 
the direction of a cot with each note. His own bed was in a 
corner, where it could not be assailed, commanded every 
window and faced the door. His strategical position was 
perfect. 

The room, but for the firing, was absolutely silent and 
without movement. Here was a case where discretion was 
decidedly the better part of valour. 

By this time, the other barrack-rooms had been roused and 
the guard had turned out. Through the thunderclaps raised 
by the Marquis their anxious calls could be heard. A crowd 
appeared at a window and someone cried “I’ll bet it’s the 
Marquis!” 


210 Spirit-of-Iron 

“You’re damn-hic-jolly well right!” said the Marquis, 
scattering the crowd with a shot through the open window. 

The guard, arriving outside the door, held a consultation. 
Meanwhile, to keep his grip on things, the Marquis sent 
shots regularly through the door. Presently the sergeant 
of the guard bellowed: 

“Best drop it, Marquis, an’ come quiet!” 

“Come an’ get me!” laughed the Marquis. 

The sergeant of the guard discreetly withdrew to consider 
the situation. 

The room was now full of smoke, the floor strewn with 
empty shells. In the midst sat the Marquis, one broad grin, 
blazing like a fire-ship and muttering: 

“Jolly rag, eh what? Cheery soul, eh what?” 

Arrived the Sergeant-Major, who was given to under¬ 
stand that the Marquis, surrounded by a heap of slain, was 
shooting up the barrack-room with a Gatling gun. 

The Sergeant-Major was inordinately brave. He felt the 
weight of his responsibility and thought that he could cow 
the Marquis. 

Advancing boldly to the door during a lull in the storm, 
he loudly shouted: 

“Humphries, you’re under arrest. It’s the Sergeant- 
Major !” 

Came the Marquis’ pleasant drawl: 

“I like you, Sergeant-Major, so please k’way’t’oor!” 

“What’s that ?” 

“I said I —like you. So keep away-hic-from that door!” 

The Sergeant-Major clutched the door-knob. 

A volley rattled through the shattered panels. 

“I told you, Sergeant-Major, keep away!” said the Mar¬ 
quis coolly. 

Some of the officers now arrived, including the Adjutant, 
Forshaw. The Marquis became more uproarious than ever. 

Forshaw was well able to deal with any emergency. He 
made enquiries and calculations. 

“Well, get the fire-engine,” he ordered at last. “We’ll 
knock him out with the hose.” 

But when the engine was in position and everything ready. 


The Clash 211 

Forshaw, perceiving that the fire had decidedly slackened in 
the last two or three minutes, peeped into the room from 
under cover. 

“Why, he’s asleep!” he whispered, suppressing a laugh. 

It was quite true. Peering over the Adjutant’s shoulder, 
the attackers beheld the Marquis, exhausted, his ‘rippin’ rag’ 
over, slumbering like a child in a litter of empty shells. 

Very quietly they took the hero into custody. He did not 
once open his eyes. 


vi 

“Sergeant-Major, before we proceed further, I’ll see the 
accused alone.” 

The Marquis, bareheaded and strictly at attention, be¬ 
tween the armed escort, was ‘on the carpet’ before the C. O. 
for the offenses he had committed in the barrack-room. 

Hector’s announcement came to him as a surprise— 
whether agreeable or otherwise it was still too early to deter¬ 
mine. Sergeant-Major Bland was also surprised. But he 
maintained the utterly impassive expression proper to Ser¬ 
geant-Majors on such occasions, said “Yes, sir,” saluted and 
marched the escort out. 

“Shall I go, too, sir?” asked the Adjutant. 

“Yes, please.” 

The Marquis was now alone before his omnipotent judge. 
The keen eyes searched his face. Anticipating an unprece¬ 
dented bursting of the vials of wrath, the Marquis braced 
his cringing soul to endure the storm. 

But the storm came not . . . only, after a time, Hector’s 
voice, more sorrowful than angry: 

“Humphries, why did you do it ?” 

The Marquis could not believe his ears. 

“Pardon, sir?” 

“I say—why did you do it ?” 

A flicker of a smile flashed across the Marquis’ mobile 
face, at the memory of his ‘rippin’ rag’ but was quickly 
suppressed. 

“I don’t know, sir,” he faltered, suddenly abashed. The 


212 Spirit-of-Iron 

C. O. had a marvellous knack of making people feel small. 
‘‘Of course, I was drunk, sir.” 

“Yes but—why were you drunk?” 

This was persistency. 

“I—I don’t know, sir.” 

The Marquis wished the C. O. would shift his tactics. 
This quiet enquiry was terrible. 

“It’s time you dropped it, Humphries. It does you no 
good. And it’s not playing the game with your people.” 

A sudden pallor came upon the Marquis. He looked like 
a man trapped. 

“My—people, sir?” 

“Yes, your people. Everyone knows you’re a gentleman 
born, Humphries—of good family.” 

The Marquis breathed again. 

“Is it fair to them?” 

The Marquis, at a loss, bit his lip, hung his head- 

“I can’t see where they come into this thing, anyway, sir,” 
he said at last. “I’m—I’m on my own.” 

“They do come into it, though, boy. But leave them aside 
for a moment—you’re a gentleman. You should know bet¬ 
ter. You disgrace the stock you’ve sprung from, Hum¬ 
phries, when you go on like this. If only for that reason, I 
want to help you to—to pull up, before it’s too late.” 

Again the Marquis could not believe his ears. Was this 
the man who had ‘told him off’ so thoroughly not long ago ?— 
The terrible ‘Spirit-of-Iron,’ whose reputation as a handler 
of delinquents was enough to frighten the hardest sinner 
into repentance? 

“You’re wasting time with me, sir,” said the Marquis, 
suddenly bold. In his voice was defiance but defiance 
strongly blended with despair. “I don’t want to be re¬ 
formed. Anyway,—I’m not worth it.” 

“Yes, you are”—still the even, passionless tone—“Because 
you’ve good blood in you, Humphries, and also, of course, 
because you’re a notorious scapegrace, I mean to help you 
out. I decided to help you as soon as I’d sized you up. 
Then—certain things occurred which inclined me towards 
severity. You’d have got it, too, by Heaven—don’t mistake 



The Clash 


213 

me—but something again intervened for you. I said just 
now your people came into this thing. They do come into 
it, Humphries!” 

The Marquis threw up his head, meeting Hector’s eyes 
with incredulity and frank disbelief. But the C. O. did not 
seem to see it. Truth was in his face. 

“My—people, sir?” the Marquis faltered and again the 
colour left his face. “I—I don’t—I don’t think—I under¬ 
stand.” 

“Listen to this, then, and realize how mistaken you have 
been and what your conduct really means. This letter was 
sent me some days ago by the Commissioner, to whom it 
was addressed. It saved you when I was going to put you 
down. It mightn’t have been necessary to read it at all, 
had you behaved yourself. But now, I’m afraid it’s almost 
the only thing to have effect.” 

Then he read the letter, while the Marquis, restless and 
set-faced, listened, still biting his lip. It was dated from 
London. 

“ 'Dear Sir: 

It is only after much hesitation and with much reluctance 
that I approach you to solicit your aid in a purely personal 
matter. Under the circumstances, however, I feel sure you 
will forgive the intrusion. I find it difficult to find words 
adequately to express all that is in my heart. I will there¬ 
fore confine myself to a brief summary of the facts. 

My second son, the Hon. Charles Percival Humphries 
Hardisty, whose portrait I enclose’ ”—the Marquis winced as 
Hector read the name and pushed forward the photo¬ 
graph—“ 'is, I believe, at present serving in your Corps as a 
constable or trooper. He was, perhaps, our favourite son. 
He was to have had a Commission in the 1st. Life Guards 
but, for certain misdemeanors, was forced to leave Sand¬ 
hurst. We had, I regret to say, hard words on the sub¬ 
ject—I am afraid I went too far but the matter involved 
certain points of honour on which I felt very strongly. 
And he was high-spirited and headstrong, as I should have 
remembered. However, to avoid wearying you with painful 
particulars in which you can have no great interest, I cut off 


214 Spirit-of-Iron 

his allowance, or rather reduced it to a minimum, and ordered 
him to leave the country for the Colonies. He chose Canada. 
Until some years ago, I made him a monthly remittance and 
endeavored to set him up as a rancher. He ran so into debt, 
however, that I eventually told him—again, to my present 
regret—I would do no more. Reports had come to me that 
he was leading a wild, worthless life in a small town in the 
Territories near the ranch whereon he was employed. He 
then wrote to me, saying I would never hear of him again. 
Since then, my enquiries have intimated that he had joined 
the North-West Mounted Police. As he was a fine horse¬ 
man and fond of soldiering, this is probably so. I have fre¬ 
quently written him, sending the letters by general delivery 
as I know he would not wish his identity to become known 
to his comrades but have had no answer. This does not 
necessarily mean that he has not received them but he is so 
sensitively proud that he may have decided to ignore them. 
He is probably using an assumed name but the photograph 
I enclose will enable you to trace him. 

My object in writing you, sir, is to beg you, firstly, to be 
so good as to ascertain whether my son is actually serving in 
your Corps; secondly, to entreat you not to be severe on the 
boy if, as I fear, he has misconducted himself while under 
your command; thirdly, to enlist your assistance to save him 
from the ruinous path he has taken; and, finally, to use your 
influence towards inducing him to reply to my letters, at 
least advising us of his health and whereabouts. I authorize 
you to inform him that I have repented of my somewhat 
hasty judgment and will make amends as far as possible and 
also to tell him that unless a reconciliation is effected now, I 
fear it never will be, for the anxiety is slowly killing his 
mother. 

In closing, I again apologize for thus troubling you but 
feel you but understand. And may God bless your efforts. 

Thanking you, 

Believe me, sir. 

Yours truly and indebtedly, 
Hannyngton.’ ” 


215 


The Clash 

A long silence was broken at last by Hector: 

“That is the letter . . . The photo, Humphries, is of 
yourself . . . the writer is a peer of very old family, 
Baron Hannygton . . . your father. ...” 

The Marquis neither moved nor spoke. 

“Your father. Can’t you read between the lines, Hum¬ 
phries? All that pride of race and name ... it was hard 
for him to write that letter. . . . He’s an old man—I- 
looked him up in the Peerage. And he—his heart’s broken, 
Humphries.” 

The Marquis made an inarticulate little sound but said 
nothing and remained standing at attention. 

“Tell me, Humphries. I want to help you. Was it—a 
girl?” 

The Marquis answered at last, in a jerky voice: 

“No, sir. The Sandhurst affair, you mean? It was— 
oh, a lot of things.” 

“Was a girl concerned in any way—were you engaged 
or anything—when you left England?” 

“In a way.” 

The Marquis’ lip was trembling. 

“You lost her, because of the scandal. Is that it?” 

With sure, deft hand the C. O. was dissecting his very 
soul. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And that’s why—you go on the tear ?” 

“Partly,” the Marquis muttered. 

“And why you try to forget—with other women?” 

The Marquis nodded, head sinking. 

“It’s foolish.” 

“My God, sir,” the Marquis burst out suddenly, “you don’t 
understand—you don’t know the shame—or what I’ve lost— 
or the hopelessness of what’s ahead—or-” 

His was a cry of agony. 

“Steady, boy,” replied Hector. “I understand—perfectly. 

I know—what this has meant to you.” 

Again came momentary silence. 

“Now—about that letter. What do you propose to do?” 

“I—I don’t know.” 



21.6 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Then IT1 tell you. You’ll write your father, of course, 
and make that reconciliation. Why, you’re lucky to have a 
father and mother—and have them care as much. Then 
you’ll stop this nonsense. You’ll work hard, get your Com¬ 
mission”—the Marquis flashed an astonished glance at 
Hector, but it was disregarded,—“go to the top of the tree, 
make a name for yourself and be able at last to look your 
people—even that girl of yours—in the face.” 

“I can’t. I can’t—it’s too late!” 

“It’s not too late. Why, I was once almost as handicapped 
as you, Humphries. My father died when I was a youngster, 
my mother’s been dead six years. I started as a buck con¬ 
stable. But the officers were good to me—the first Commis¬ 
sioner—and later Commissioners—and Superintendent Den¬ 
ton, who left the Force some time ago. They all helped. 
Officers don't go down on a man unjustly, Humphries. 
They’re all ready to lend a hand. You think I look on you 
as only one man in hundreds, too insignificant to care about. 
But I don’t. You’re as much to me as any. You’re not the 
first I’ve helped make good, by any means. And I want to 
help you. You can make good, if I could. Yes, you can. 
Now, listen. I’m not going to hammer you this time, 
though you’ve deserved it. I’m going to let you off easily. 
In return, I want you to run straight. And the first time I 
get the chance, I’ll give you an opportunity—a real oppor¬ 
tunity—to prove yourself.” 

But the strain of the interview had been almost more than 
the Marquis could bear. His father’s letter had put him on 
the rack. And the C. O.’s unexpected kindness had humbled 
him into the dust. Instead of unreasoning severity he had 
today, for the first time, sympathy. He began to understand 
why men loved and feared Hector, to see why he had attained 
greatness. 

“Is it a go?” 

“My God, sir—I—don’t know—what—to say. You’re the 
first-” 

“That’ll do,” Hector interrupted him. Then it is a go. 
Remember—!” 

And he called in the Sergeant-Major and escort. 



The Clash 


217 


VII 

“Well, what is it?” said Hector. 

Dandy Jack, the sixteen-year-old, angelical puncher, took 
off his broad-brimmed slouch hat and smoothed down his ele¬ 
gant clothes—wide, flapping leather chaps faced with silver, 
grey flannel shirt, spotless mauve silk neckerchief and trim¬ 
mings. 

“Demon George, Major.” 

“Yes.” Hector was instantly alert. “What about him?” 

“I know for a fact he stuck up a puncher last night. The 
puncher’s too scart to report it.” 

“You do? Positive evidence?” 

“You bet.” 

“All right. Go and tell the Sergeant-Major. Then send 
him over to me.” 

Dandy Jack departed. 

Hector felt triumphant. The Prophet's clamour, despite 
Welland’s promise, had been very loud of late. Not that 
Hector had ever expected Welland to try seriously to stop 
the uproar. His enemy was too deadly an enemy to do that. 
Many citizens were muttering among themselves, asking 
why Adair still held his hand? Their criticisms had been 
hard to bear. But Hector had borne them stoically. The 
stout confidence of his men and of many other citizens had, 
of course, helped to make things easier. 

He tried not to smile as he thought of what Welland 
would say when he heard the news: ‘Demon George, the 
outlaw with a price on his head, dead or alive, taken at 
leisure by the Mounted Police.’ 

Sergeant-Major Bland came in. Hector gave him his 
instructions. 

“He frequents the Maverick saloon. We’ll tell off one 
man to make the arrest tonight. Warn him to do it quietly— 
nothing provocative—no gun-play if avoidable—the usual 
thing-” 

“He’s a dangerous man, sir. Perhaps two men-” 

“No! You know the tradition? Well, look to it. But 




218 Spirit-of-Iron 

have a patrol at hand, in case of trouble. A corporal and 
two men.” 

“Very good, sir. Have you any suggestions ?” 

“Corporal Savage, perhaps.” 

“Yes, sir. And for the arrest? It -wants a good, 
steady-” 

“Yes. Humphries.” 

“Humphries, sir ?” 

Bland was again surprised. 

“Yes, Humphries. And tell Corporal Savage to remind 
him of our compact; also, that the arrest will be a real 
service—to me, personally. Humphries will understand.” 

VIII 

The night turned out dark, with scurrying clouds, a rising 
wind and, now and then, a spatter of rain. The Marquis 
passed out of the barrack-gate with a cheery word to the 
sentry and trudged off to town. 

He had received his orders that afternoon. He knew ex¬ 
actly what was expected of him. He knew—could he ever 
forget?—exactly what was meant by ‘our compact/ He 
also knew what the C. O. meant by ‘a real service—to me 
personally/ He had not witnessed the Prophet’s attacks for 
nothing. And he was buoyed up with hope and gratitude 
and determined to show the C. O. that he had not been 
merciful in vain. 

He got into town and walked steadily through the almost 
deserted streets. The wooden houses loomed up, damnably 
cheerless, murky lights glowing dimly from their windows. 
Some of them, with their pitiful imitation second-storey 
fronts, reminded him of would-be gentlemen wearing 
‘dickies/ Now and then doors opened and he heard the 
tinkle of out-of-tune pianos, the coarse jesting of men. 
The wretched cow-ponies, tails to wind, reins trailing, 
waited miserably for their masters. Suddenly the utter 
squalor, the primitive uncouthness of Broncho, which its 
citizens considered equal to any old-world capital, came vio¬ 
lently home to him and his spirits bumped down to zero. 



The Clash 219 

A drunken remittance man came reeling from a saloon, 
singing a maudlin strain with ‘Piccadilly’ for its theme. A 
stupendous longing touched him, for London, dear old 

London, and all it meant; his people, his-; and for a 

moment he saw himself as he had once been—a carefree man 
about town—in contrast with what he was—an exile, an 
exiled gentleman-ranker, one of the Lost Legion. 

No, by Jove,—not lost! The C. O.’s interest in him was 
like a light in the universal darkness. He was going to prove 
himself, make himself, tonight! 

Passing the Golden West Cafe, he felt an impulse to go 
in and talk to Nellie. She was a good-hearted little thing. 
But he put the thought aside. He regretted, now, that he 
had played the fool with women—making a game of a 
serious matter—So he walked on. 

Through the night came suddenly a long, swinging, heavy, 
tramp, tramp, tramp of feet, a musical jingle of spurs—the 
tramp and jingle of Corporal Savage’s patrol. 

“That you, Humphries?” 

“Yes, Corporal.” 

The little, bull-necked, rugged-faced N. C. O. halted in 
the light from a window. 

“He’s in the Maverick, all right. Take him easy. We’ll 
be standin’ by. Don’t draw first. An’ remember the C. O. 
expects you to make good.” 

“Yes, Corporal.” 

“Right. I’ll wait at the corner.” 

The darkness and rain gulped them up. The Marquis 
was alone again. 

The Maverick was but a step away. The Marquis crossed 
over. The sound of many voices and the ring of glasses 
swelled into the street. 

The Marquis, whistling softly, removed his pea-jacket for 
greater freedom of movement and hung it over a hitching 
post. This done, he loosed his revolver. Then he opened the 
door and entered. 

Instantly the hum of voices died. Every eye turned to¬ 
wards the tall young constable in the doorway. Every man 
knew what his entrance meant. 



220 Spirit-of-Iron 

Demon George, a lanky, powerful, lantern-jawed ruffian 
in a pair of long boots and an old suit, was leaning against 
the bar, joking w r ith the bartender, his hat on the back of his 
head. He was apparently unarmed. Attracted by the gen¬ 
eral silence, he turned and saw the Marquis. Instantly, his 
face contracted and the laugh died on his lips. He, too, 
guessed what the constable had come for. 

The Marquis, smiling easily, disregarded the staring crowd 
and strolled towards him. 

“I hear you’re looking for a Mounted Policeman,” he said 
smoothly. “Here I am. And I want you.” 

Perhaps there was an excuse for Demon George. The 
Law, as he knew it in his own country, shot first and talked 
afterwards; and there was a price on his head, which only 
his own hand had kept on his shoulders. That hand now 
flashed to his hip-pocket. 

The Marquis was steeped in the Police tradition; and re¬ 
membered his C. O.’s wishes. 

“Leave him to me, boys!” he sang out gaily, and closed. 

They struggled fiercely, the outlaw cursisg. The Marquis 
held his opponent’s right wrist, pointing the revolver up¬ 
wards. With his own right hand, he whipped in a terrific 
blow. The outlaw was against the wall and his head could 
not ‘give’ before the blow, which broke his jaw. 

Demon George fired three shots, each shot smashing the 
silence but going into the ceiling. The Marquis laughed. 

Then, somehow—no one knew how—the outlaw got his 
wrist free. Another shot rang out. The Marquis sagged 
suddenly, dropping his arms. And, as he staggered back— 
back—back against the bar, the outlaw fired two more shots, 
emptying his revolver into the policeman’s body. ... 

In the utter and awful silence which followed, Demon 
George, still against the wall, nursing his jaw with one hand, 
stared at his victim, waiting for him to drop. Not a soul 
dared stir. The Marquis, under the concentrating gaze, 
slowly twisted round, clinging to the bar for support. His 
face was wreathed in agony—agony not only physical but 
mental—of hope shattered—and he did not want the crowd 
to see it. 


221 


The Clash 

And then, like a flash, gathering his waning strength in 
one heroic and desperate effort, he whirled round. He could 
use a weapon now! The six shots of the Marquis’ revolver 
chopped the hush—six wild, fierce claps of sound. 

“You—damn—dog!” whispered the Marquis, as he fired. 

Demon George had not expected the fire, since he had 
mortally wounded his man. He pitched onto his face, stone 
dead; and the Marquis slid, grinning, to the floor. 

It had all happened in the space of a minute. 

From outside came the rush of Corporal Savage’s patrol. 

The Corporal burst in, flinging the crowd aside. His eyes 
fell on the Marquis. 

“Christ!” he said. 

In a moment he had the Marquis in his arms. 

The awe-struck crowd stood motionless. 

“Humphries! Humphries, man!” cried the Corporal. 

The Marquis opened his tired eyes, heavily, smiling. 

“Got me—some way. Sorry—Corp’l!” he whispered, his 
voice trailing away. 

“Marquis!” said Corporal Savage. The little man had a 
tiger’s heart but his face was twitching. 

The grey-green pallor of death was on the Marquis’ face. 

“It was dead— or alive—dead— or —Corp! Tell the 

Chief—tell him—I—I-” 

The Corporal understood. 

“I’ll tell him, old scout!” 

The Marquis smiled again; and then again came silence 
and the rough crowd took off their hats. . . . 

Constable Humphries—the Hon. Charles Percival Hum¬ 
phries Hardisty—heart-smasher, poet, waster, gallant gen¬ 
tleman—had kept his compact. 


Chapter III 


i 

“Look here, Adair,” said the Commissioner, “what lies 
between you and that fellow Molyneux? Ever since your 
arrival in the Broncho district, a campaign has been going 
on against you in the papers and under the surface. The 
preliminary business over Demon George was a case in point. 
Then, afterwards, Molyneux slated you unmercifully over 
the death of that man Humphries. In his papers, I mean. 
Just now, in Ottawa, he concentrates on you again and every 
Eastern paper is printing his speeches. I’ve got a copy of 
Hansard here with that last outburst of his—the duel be¬ 
tween himself and the Prime Minister. During the debate 
on the estimates, Molyneux grabbed the opportunity to attack 
the Force—apparently his favourite game. Of course, we 
were stoutly defended and I don't think the House took 
Molyneux seriously. But the papers print what he says and, 
because he's a Westerner, well—the people, in the East at 
any rate, take it for Gospel. Have you seen the reports?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Hector. “I’ve a cousin editing a Toronto 
paper.” 

“Then you know what they’ve been saying. Pretty 
severe—and talkative, eh ?” 

“Yes, sir. But you were going to read Hansard.” 

“Oh, yes. Let’s see—‘the Honourable member’—ah, here 
we are: ‘And here’s another case of inefficiency.'—This is 
Molyneux speaking—‘Not long ago, early in the summer, 
out there, we had a notorious bad man, who came into my 
constituency from the United States. The man was en¬ 
couraged into defiance by being permitted to walk round 
town a free man, terrorizing the citizens. When finally the 
Police officer in command took action after repeated pro¬ 
tests, he ordered a single constable to carry out the arrest. 

222 


The Clash 223 

This young fellow—a brave lad, of good English family— 
attempted to arrest the man without drawing a weapon, in 
accordance with instructions expressly given and was, of 
course, shot dead. None but a fool would have ordered such 
a thing. That bad man should have been arrested as soon 
as he crossed the boundary. The arrest should have been 
made by several men and there should have been no monkey 
business of not drawing weapons. That young man was 
just deliberately sacrificed!” 

“Now here’s a smart one from the Prime Minister, 
Adair—right off the bat: ‘I beg to differ. That young man 
was a hero. He died doing his duty in accordance with one 
of the noblest traditions of the North-West Mounted 
Police—using no unnecessary force and no provocative 
measures.’ Then comes Molyneux again: ‘Yes, that’s con¬ 
solation to the bereaved parents! You can’t arrest Western 
outlaws, sir, as you would naughty boys. And please re¬ 
member, I speak for my constituents. They were up in 
arms about that case—and are now.’ By the way, of course 
you wrote-” 

“Yes, sir,” Hector smiled at his chief’s look of concern, “I 
wrote to his father. The old gentleman answered that it 
was the finest piece of news concerning his son he’d ever 
had and that he was prouder of him dead than ever, since— 
these were his words—his son had done his duty like a man 
and a Hardisty.” 

“Jove! Fine, fine! Too bad the Prime Minister hadn’t 
those words to fling into Molyneux’s teeth. What do you 
think of the other statement—here: ‘I speak for my con¬ 
stituents. They were up in arms about that case—and are 
now’?” 

“To a certain extent that’s true, sir. Molyneux has the 
support of many people; but I think the majority still trust 
me. I’m certain they would not agree with Molyneux’s 
remarks.” 

“I believe you’re right,” responded the Commissioner. 
“But his power is growing. It’s a bad thing to have such 
publicity given these matters as is given by the Eastern 
press. Then, out here, there’s more underhand work than 



224 


Spirit-of-Iron 

ever. I’ve had people trying to get you pushed out of the 
district—Molyneux’s friends, I suppose. You know that?” 

‘Tve suspected it.” 

“Mind you, he’s not attempting to climb to power over us, 
Adair. We’re only a side issue. He’s getting ahead by 
graft, slickness, brains. Like an octopus, he has a lot of 
tentacles and they’re all fastening on something. Mark me, 
that fellow will be a big man in the West before long—and 
a dangerous enemy.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Hector. 

He knew that the Commissioner was working up to some¬ 
thing. 

“In view—er—of all this, and Molyneux’s attitude towards 
you especially, Adair, I was wondering if—for your own 
good, y’know—you’d care to be transferred-” 

His purpose stood revealed at last. To save Hector from 
Molyneux, he was offering to transfer him to another dis¬ 
trict. 

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the thought very much. 
But—well, I doubt if it would do much good, after all, sir; 
and it would look rather like a victory to our friend—and 
as if I’d turned my back to the enemy. So, I'd rather stay 
here, for the present, anyway.” 

The Commissioner obviously liked Hector’s fighting spirit 
but seemed a little regretful. 

“Is that your final decision?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir, thank you.” 

“All right.” The Commissioner threw away his cigar and 
prepared to go. “You may regret it, Adair. However— 
oh, wait a minute! You’ve not told me what lies between 
you and Molyneux. Can’t you confide in me?” 

Hector had once inclined towards revealing the truth to 
the Commissioner—to tell him that the hostile M. P. for 
Broncho was Welland, his purpose inspired by the incidents 
of fifteen years and more ago. But what was the use? He 
had scoured the Continent for proofs and could find none. 
Without proofs, to lay such charges against Molyneux would 
be idle. 

“There’s nothing to confide, sir. The man’s taken a dis- 



The Clash 225 

like to me for some reason unknown. Perhaps he’s the tool 
of someone else. Who knows?” 

“You’ve nothing against him?” 

I never met Molyneux till I came to this district, sir.” 

The Commissioner pondered. 

“Queer! But there are strange men in this world. And 
if you ever change your mind about the transfer-” 

“Thank you, sir. I don’t think I will. Don’t worry about 
me, sir. I’ve lots of stout-hearted friends. I’m not afraid.” 

“Don’t forget you can count on me, too. Though, in a 
case like this, Adair, my hands are tied, very tied-” 

“I know, sir. But, so long as I satisfy you, sir, I don’t 
care a tinker’s curse-” 

“Good man, good man! It will be a hard fight, though! 
He’s raised quite a storm, Adair—a growing storm—grow¬ 
ing!” 

They went back to the mess together. 

ii 

The Commissioner’s promise of support increased Hector’s 
confidence in his ability to deal with his enemy. He had 
always known, of course, that this support was to be relied 
on. When it was a matter of defending one of his officers 
against an unjust assault, the Commissioner’s course was 
plain. Still, it was pleasant to hear, from his chief’s own 
lips, that the powerful weight of headquarters was behind 
him. 

But the real danger lay in Welland’s influence with others. 
He could so stir up the public against Hector, who was un¬ 
able to make a move to defend himself, that he might at 
last be forced to resign. Or Welland might, with the assist¬ 
ance of his political colleagues, compel the Government to 
remove the Superintendent at Broncho. No justification 
would be offered—he would simply be told that his services 
were no longer required. Such things had often happened, 
the victim being invariably damned in the eyes of the public, 
who knew nothing of the facts. A third possibility—and 
most dangerous—was that Hector, through no fault of his 





226 


Spirit-of-Iron 

own, might fail the public in some big crisis and be re¬ 
moved, at Welland’s instigation, as inefficient. 

But against this, as he had told the Commissioner, he could 
gather hosts of friends, old stagers who knew him actually 
for what he was, not to be shaken by every changing wind, 
strong men, true as steel. Hector, on account of his posi¬ 
tion, could not, and in any case, would not, ask their aid; 
but they had watched the summer’s developments, and come 
forward voluntarily to lend their aid. 

Welland’s attitude regarding the affair of Demon George 
and the Marquis had been particularly effective in bringing 
Hector recruits. The Eastern papers might have thought 
less of the politician’s claim to represent Western public 
opinion had they witnessed the enlistment of, say, Jim Jack- 
son, now among the biggest ranchers of the Territories. 

Jim Jackson came in specially from his ranch, a long 
journey by the C. P. R., to tell Hector just what he thought 
of Molyneux. 

‘‘Represents the people, does he ? I wonder! Which d’you 
thinks likely to have the backing of the West, eh? This 
fly-by-night Mr. Nobody from God-knows-where, or Super¬ 
intendent Adair, who came into the country with the early 
birds and has grown up with it to what he is today ?” 

“He’s very strong, Jim,” said Hector, smiling a little. 

“Never mind, Hec’. The ranchers will back their Mani- 
tou-pewabic to the last ditch.” 

“Thanks, old man,” said Hector. 

At the other end of the scale was Tom Williams, Editor 
of the Broncho Branding-Iron. Tom was eminently re¬ 
spectable, but, for business purposes, assumed the air of a 
hardened sinner, in order to be in keeping with his paper, 
which he had founded when ‘up against it’ several years be¬ 
fore. The Branding-Iron was a weekly and relied for sales 
on an unfathomable fund of scandalous stories, directed 
against the great and would-be great, plus a marvellous array 
of rejuvenated bar-room jokes of very doubtful character. 
The public taste being captured, Tom’s paper was regularly 
sold in every corner of Canada. Its influence was greatly 
strengthened because it never assailed any man without just 


The Clash 


227 


cause but went out of its way to ‘brand’ every crook and 
grafter in the Dominion. The support of such a champion 
was not to be sneezed at. It was a drunken roysterer but 
could use its rapier; and its thrust went home. 

So Hector had powerful allies at both ends of the ladder. 

Then there were the men—behind him to a man. Let 
Corporal Savage’s room stand for an example. One after¬ 
noon, in the worthy Corporal’s absence, a group of them got 
together over the Branding-Iron containing Tom’s latest 
tirade. 

There were present in this gathering of mighties the red¬ 
headed and hideous York, constable under Cranbrook in the 
days when they had arrested the gambler Perkins, and likely 
to remain so till promoted to non-commissioned angel; 
Mason, Hector’s trumpeter ten years before, also a constable 
today; Dunsmuir, son of a Canadian millionaire, driven to 
enlist by boredom; and Constable Kellett, once a Colonel in 
the British Army, with a dazzling breast of ribbons, driven 
to enlist by necessity. 

They were perhaps a little prejudiced in Hector’s favour 
but were none the less representative on that account. 

Dunsmuir, with a drawl suggestive of Toronto University, 
read extracts aloud: 

“ ‘This so-called representative of Broncho and dis¬ 
trict ... a beard that reeks crime and a nose that sug¬ 
gests whiskey. . . . We have heard a story about him 
from a dear old bar-keep friend of ours which takes a lot of 
beating. ... I blush to print it, but Justice . . . Now 
this is the man who is heaving bricks at the Big Chief Mani- 
tou-pewabic ... the kind who kicks a man when he is 
down and hits him when his hands are tied . . . everybody 
knows to whom belongs our contemporary with the John 
the Baptist title, which purports to be an unprejudiced . . . 
everybody knows that the Superintendent cannot speak . . . 
and, in the Humphries affair, all hands in the Police are 
aware that Humphries followed the best traditions of the 
Riders of the Plains . . . Who is likely to be trusted by 
the people, the man who has been a national and well-loved 
figure for twenty years or ... If it came to a showdown, 


228 


Spirit-of-Iron 

who will stand by the big fellow? Why the ranchers, the 
Indians, the punchers, the citizens, the . . . and behind the 
other chap ? Why, the hoboes, the bums, the politicians . . . 
We are certain a libel action will be started by our dis¬ 
tinguished enemy for this; but one can wear off the effects 
of liquor in jail as well as elsewhere and we would feel quite 
at home, anyway . . . * ” 

“I think that calls for ringing cheers,” remarked Kellett, 
as Dunsmuir laid down the paper. 

“Huh, listen to him stick up for ‘Spirit-of-Iron’!” sneered 
York. 

The ex-Colonel flushed, squaring his broad shoulders. He 
had good reason to support the man who had taken him in, 
though over age, after his ranch had crashed, leaving him 
destitute. 

“York, my lad!” he said gently, “I shall be forced to mould 
your unpleasant face with my boot if you use that tone 
again.” 

“That’s right, Uncle!” Mason cut in. “Give him hell! 
It’s coming to him.” 

“What’ll we do to him?” demanded Dunsmuir, preparing 
to attack York. 

“Oh, shur’rup,” said York. “That fellow Williams can 
hand it out, can’t he, eh ?” 

“Sure can. I guess he’ll get brought up for libel, all 
right,” said Mason. 

“Not him. He’s too poor to make it worth while,” Duns¬ 
muir asserted. 

“Don’t chuck your confounded money in our poverty- 
stricken faces,” Kellett adjured. “I like the description of 
Molyneux. It’s dead right.” 

“Well, no one ever sues for libel unless there’s money in 
it,” persisted Dunsmuir. “Yes, he sure has. That bit about 
kicking a man when he’s down and his hands tied is just it. 
And every time he kicks the Chief he kicks us, too.” 

“Let him kick,” Kellett said. “The Chief’s too big to 
care.” 

“Ho, is he?” questioned York. “Think he’s not got 
feelin’s, like the rest o’ us ?” 


229 


The Clash 

“Have you feelings, insect?” 

“Damn right. Keep off ’em. ’Course we can’t do nothin’, 
so he goes on. But, by Gor, a touch o’ tar an’ feathers from 
the boys. ...” 

“Stow it,” said Kellett. “You’re the sort that would give 
him a real handle to work on. Let him talk.” 

“I guess the Marquis was a better man than you are, 
York,” said Dunsmuir. 

“You do, eh? Well, I guess so. Still, I’ve done my job 
when it’s been given me.” 

“That’s right,” said Mason. “We’ve not forgotten the 
road-agent at Golden, old man. But you’ve got to stick by 
‘Spirit-of-Iron’ in this thing; and he’d be the first to jump 
on any monkey business like tar and feathers.” 

“Right, youngster,” Kellett agreed. “The chief helped 
make this outfit and his ideas go. Best way we can help 
is by doing our little job o’ work and following in father’s 
footsteps. Eh ?” 

“You bet.” The answer was unanimous. “Nose to croup, 
this outfit’s behind Papa!”—a sentiment but mildly express¬ 
ing all the men felt in the matter. 

There was one other whose views, though stronger than 
most, rather coincided with the men’s. That was Mrs. Mac- 
Farlane. In common with every woman in Broncho, she 
was ready to defend the rip-snorting Superintendent with 
teeth and claws. Mrs. MacFarlane was prepared to go fur¬ 
ther than any. 

Her admiration for Hector had steadily increased and by 
this time—in the fall—she did not in the least care who 
knew it. In fact, she rather enjoyed showing it, especially 
to MacFarlane, who had gradually arrived at a pitch of 
fierce but smouldering jealousy. He reminded her of a 
slumbering furnace and she loved to prod the terrific heat 
to life. In his outbursts, he was amusing. The possibility 
that the outbursts might badly scorch the prodder did not 
seem to occur to her. So she went gaily on. 

Meanwhile, she began to think that she had melted the 
heart of ice, which no woman was ever known to have 


230 


Spirit-of-Iron 

affected before. She had a physical allurement few men 
could resist; she knew it very well. She believed that it had 
made itself felt on the mighty demigod whom admirers 
called ‘Spirit-of-Iron.’ Once she had told him, ‘Pretty 
women and handsome men are made for one another.’ She 
was a pretty woman; he a very handsome man. She thought 
the fact had sunk in by this time—that she could read it in 
his voice and eyes. Soon, now, she would find out if she 
were right. 

And MacFarlane?—Where did he come in? 

But he was a poor, uninteresting creature, anyway. Too 
bad she’d married him! He couldn’t bring the blood to a 
woman’s cheeks, her heart to her mouth. Whereas . . . 

Mrs. MacFarlane had sympathy for Guinevere. 

in 

The first blizzard of the winter descended upon Broncho. 
At midnight, in the haven of his own den, while the rest of 
the barracks slept, and the Superintendent sat writing a re¬ 
port, the patient Blythe, in the next room, waited to put his 
chief to bed. 

Trailing a desperate bandit from page to written page, 
Hector did not hear the gentle knock at the front door. 

But it roused him at last. He crossed the room into the 
passage and opened the door— 

Opened it on a woman muffled in furs, covered with snow, 
whose wild eyes stared over her stole and were shadowed by 
gleaming hair. 

“Mrs. MacFarlane!” 

Trained as he was to stern self-control, he could not quite 
hide his surprise. 

“Let me come in! Let me come in!” she gasped. 

Seeing that something was wrong, he suppressed a desire 
to ask questions, stood aside and shut the door. 

She swayed in the passage. 

“Can you walk ?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes—I—think so.” 

And she tottered forward. 


231 


The Clash 

“I—I—you’ll just have to help me- 

“I thought so!” he said quickly. 

Half shyly, after the manner of men unaccustomed to 
intimacy with women, he put an arm round her. She clung 
to him, marvellously appealing in her helplessness. 

Intent on her welfare, he brought her to an arm-chair 
and pulled it up to the big stove, she murmuring little gasps 
of thanks. 

“What’s the matter ?” he asked. 

“I went—to the dance at the—Quadrille Club—with a— 
party from town. I told them—I could get across—the 
parade-ground—alone. But all the lights are out—and you 
can’t see a thing—for the snow. I—got lost. I must— 
have—wandered round for hours. I’m all tired out—and 
nearly—frozen! If it hadn’t been for your light, I—don’t 
just know—” 

Nervously overwrought, she was beginning to cry. 

“All right—all right!” he said hastily. “Soon put you 
right. Let’s see your face.” 

She obeyed, anxiously. What a pretty, appealing little 
face it was! She wondered how she looked in the role of 
heroine in ‘Out of The Storm.’ 

“No frost-bite,” he remarked to himself. “You must take 
your hat and coat off, though, till you get over this. Your 
gloves, too. Absurd little gloves for this country! Must 
get gauntlets! Mac should have told you.” 

The intimate ‘Mac,’ establishing a bond between them, she 
liked and the implied censure of her absent husband she 
fancied even more. 

“Should he?” she asked, smiling woefully. “Mac doesn’t 
take the care of me he ought.” 

He felt her hands. Did he—she wondered—feel the thrill 
which then went through her ? 

He did not answer the smile. 

“They aren’t cold,” he said thoughtfully. 

“They were,” she answered. 

“Well, it’s safe to warm you up, which is a good thing. 
You won’t lose any fingers this time. Come, off with that 
hat and coat. I’ve some brandy somewhere.” 



232 Spirit-of-Iron 

She stood up and removed her wraps. He assisted her 
with a grave, courtly grace such as MacFarlane could never 
show, for the reason that it was not in him. 

“Fire now,” he exclaimed. 

Stoking and poking up the glow, he soon produced a 
first-class blaze. 

“O-o-h!” she sighed rapturously, holding her little white 
hands to the warmth. She shot him a grateful and admiring 
glance—each glance meant to kill. “O-o-h, that’s lovely.” 

“I’ll get the brandy,” he said. 

She watched his tall, soldierly figure in its smart mess 
dress as he delved into a little cupboard. While he searched, 
she surveyed the room with eager interest. It was terribly 
bare, to her view, rigidly severe, eloquent of the hard, cold, 
lonely life the man led. She knew what it lacked—the 
feminine touch!—to make it a home! She would have filled 
it with gew-gaws and knick-knacks tied with scented pink 
ribbon. 

One thing she noted, with pecular satisfaction—there was 
not one photo of a young or fairly young woman to be seen. 

He had found the brandy. Turning, he looked at her a 
moment. She read admiration in his eyes and suddenly felt 
that she must look adorably attractive—smiling wistfully in 
return, so small in the big chair, hair aglow, eyes very soft, 
white arms drooping, lustrous pink ball-dress spread out like 
the train of a Queen all round her. 

She was the reincarnation of the original Eve, with the 
voice of the serpent in her ears—the serpent had a voice in 
Paradise. 

So for a moment, neither moved nor spoke. Then he 
broke the little spell. 

“Good stuff, this.” He moved to the table and poured out 
a full-sized whack. “Drink it up.” 

She obeyed, loving it. He watched her calmly. Gasping 
a little, and blinking, she presently paused. 

“This is really very good,” she said—then, for the first 
time, became more personal. “I don’t know what I’d have 
done without you. But I’m awfully afraid I disturbed you.” 


The Clash 233 

“Not at all,” he said politely. “I’ll finish when you’ve 
gone. But don’t go till you’ve quite recovered.” 

“You’re dying to get rid of me!” she pouted. 

“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not often honoured so charm¬ 
ingly.” 

She smiled, with a little bow, and sipped the brandy again. 

“I wonder,” she said suddenly, “what—people would think 
if they knew we were alone, here—at this time of night— 
and-” 

She laughed excitedly and looked at him with bright eyes. 

“And Mac away?” he finished for her. “Well, of course, 
if they didn’t know the circumstances, they might talk.” 

“Yes,” she agreed. “But no-one need—er—will know. 
And I wouldn’t care if they did,” she concluded, with a tak¬ 
ing little air of bravado. “Do you think I’m very shocking?” 

“Not very he answered. 

She laughed again. 

“Do you know—this is the first time I’ve been in a 
bachelor’s quarters?” she jerked to a new tack, setting down 
the glass. “I’ve often been tempted-” 

“You’ve not missed much.” 

“Er—no.” Her look was distinctly disapproving. It’s 
so bare—so terribly priestly. It lacks something. Oh, I 
know what it is!” 

She had been planning this ever since the idea first struck 
her. 

“And that is?” he asked—falling—or walking—into the 
trap. 

“Surely you know? A woman’s hand, Major, eh? Little 
touch here, little touch there, eh?” 

“Perhaps,” he answered. 

She disregarded his seeming indifference. 

“I’d love to straighten it out for you some time—fix it up. 
Ah—would you let me?” 

“I think—Blythe would object.” 

“Oh, yes—your servant. Nasty thing.” Off again, in 
another direction. “You know, Major, I can’t understand 
why you’ve never married.” 

Though he did not move a muscle, she felt instinctively 




234 


Spirit-of-Iron 

that he shrank into his shell. She did not notice that one 
hand, resting on the table, was trembling. 

“Never met a woman who would have me,” he answered 
evasively. 

“Oh, that’s nonsense. Why, any woman— any woman 
would be proud-” 

“Thank you,” he bowed a little stiffly, though with an 
amused twinkle. “Feeling better?” 

“Much! But I think—a little more brandy.” 

So they went on talking, she doing the leading, he follow¬ 
ing lamely. She sipped at the brandy. The conversation 
became increasingly intimate. Several times she touched 
him caressingly with her hand. He was restless—anxious, 
perhaps, for her to go—quivering for the conventions. But 
she lingered on, now quite at home, and radiating with a 
physical magnetism. 

She was the embodiment of the woman whose indiscrimi¬ 
nate favours crossed men’s swords in other days. 

Bit by bit, she unwrapped her true self from its manifold 
coverings and bared it to his eyes. 

Till then, in spite of the curious intimacy she had built 
up during many months, he had never seen her as she really 
was. 

The climax came in due time. She put down her glass. 

“I s’pose—I really must go—now,” she laughed. “I'm 
—all right now. But—” she yawned, stretched herself 
luxuriously, exactly like a cat, and smiled at him through 
drooping lids. “I really—don’t want —to go. Why should 
I go—at all?” 

She stood up languidly. From his lounging attitude, he 
straightened himself, too, and faced her, very stern, both 
hands at his side and clenched a little. 

The situation—of which she had dreamed and which she 
had schemed for—had arrived. She felt that she had him 
fast—the great man whose life was Duty—had melted the 
heart of ice, hitherto invulnerable. Her vanity was on the 
point of being satisfied. She moved to satisfy it. 

“Hector—” she whispered, “I’ll—stay as—long as you 
like!” 




The Clash 235 

And, both hands upon his shoulders, she tilted up her face 
and, very close, looked into his. 

They stood there motionless, in a silence like death. 

The strong face did not alter its expression. If any 
struggle was going on behind it, no sign of it was visible. 

Yet her soul was naked before him. 

The truth was that he had read her purpose almost from 
the start. 

For a short time, she had deceived him, when she entered 
his room. But one glance at her face, one touch of her 
hands, had instantly told him that she was neither cold nor 
exhausted. The snow on her coat had not been blown upon 
it by the wind. He suspected that she had rolled on the 
ground before knocking at his door. 

The discovery had shaken him a little. Plunged always in 
his work, and with the natural modesty that was his strongest 
characteristic, he had never regarded her as more than a 
harmless flirt or possessed of any real feeling for him other 
than sincere friendliness. She had been an amusing little 
doll, though capable, now and then, of touching something 
in him which stirred him uneasily. He fully understood 
how great an influence she might have on other men; but the 
idea of anything bordering on an intrigue between them had 
never entered his head. 

Then—suddenly—he found her in his room—the room she 
rightly described as bare, cold, priestly. She had talked to 
him intimately, of things he had kept locked away for twelve 
long, dreary years, lighting up the whole place with her 
dainty beauty, goading his starved, strictly disciplined soul 
into thoughts that had lain dormant for what seemed ages, 
feeding fires that he wanted to keep low, offering him all that 
Life might have given him, but had not given him, all that 
might have been and was not. For the past half-hour, there 
had been hot flames in his blood, fierce throbbings in his 
brain. She had undoubtedly melted the icicle as no woman 
had ever done since long, long ago. 

She had hammered incessantly at his heart. But—this 
would have astonished her and crushed her had she only 
known it—the refrain which her hammering had brought into 


236 


Spirit-of-Iron 

his head was, not her name, but this one, endlessly re¬ 
peated : 

“Frances! Frances! Frances!” 

Always, over and over again, maddeningly: 

“Frances!” 

The sweet purity that he had lost was tearing at him- 

Not the evil clinging to him now. 

To him this woman’s naked soul was what it was—con¬ 
temptible, dirty, miserably small and mean, without strength, 
governed only by two things: vanity and passion. 

Yet she had stirred him more than she could possibly 
guess. 

Her eyes were beautiful—like Frances’ eyes; she was 
graceful and pretty—like Frances—with a mouth that in¬ 
vited desperately- 

Both lived years while she rested her hands on his 
shoulders and gazed upwards and he stood there, utterly 
impassive. 

Then he placed his hands on hers, gently put them 
down- 

She laughed, thinking this his last struggle. 

“The temptation of St. Adair!” she said slowly. “Take 
me.” 

He held her hands in a grasp that gave her agony. 

“You forget,” he said, very quietly and distinctly, “that 
MacFarlane is my friend—and a brother officer.” 

This was defeat. For the first time she, too, saw him for 
what he was—‘Spirit-of-Iron/ 

Before she quite realized what he was doing, he pushed 
her gently into the big chair and called: 

“Blythe!” 

Suppressing a yawn, bringing back the sound, easy atmos¬ 
phere of everyday life to the room, Blythe appeared. 

“ Yessir ?” 

“Mrs. MacFarlane missed her way in the blizzard. I want 
you to escort her home. Then you can go.” 

She allowed him to put on her wraps. She was still dazed. 

“Good-night,” he said pleasantly, extending his hand. 
“Pleased to have been of service.” 





The Clash 


237 

His manner gave Blythe no inkling of what had happened. 

“Good-night/’ she murmured, mechanically giving him her 
hand. 

She knew herself, now, just as well as he did. He had 
shown her plainly enough, yet in the gentlest manner. 

A moment later he was alone—agonisingly alone. 

IV 

Mrs. MacFarlane’s white hands had set an avalanche 
going. 

None had been more affected by Mr. Molyneux’s propa¬ 
ganda than Mrs. MacFarlane’s cook. Molyneux had laid 
the death of the Marquis at Hector’s door. Alice loved the 
Marquis. She relied implicitly on everything she saw in 
print. The Prophet blamed Hector; accordingly, she hated 
him. 

On the night when Mrs. MacFarlane visited Hector’s 
quarters, the cook saw her go in and come out. Alice knew 
that her mistress was at least ‘taken’ with the Superintendent. 
She put two and two together and found her chance to hurt 
her enemy—as she regarded him. 

When MacFarlane returned, Alice told him of what she 
had seen. 

The avalanche started. 

MacFarlane, desperately jealous, desperately in love, 
found excuses for his wife, none for Hector. In spite of 
all the evidence of his senses, he decided that Hector was 
to blame. 

To trust his old comrade, who had never failed him yet— 
to put his suspicions before him, man to man, and abide by 
the result: this, the happiest solution, strangely, never oc¬ 
curred to him. 

Besides, he wanted to finish him! 

But how? Openly? Impossible! Then, secretly—under 
cover. He must find some means of disgracing Hector, 
some subtle way of hurting him which would be worse than 
death. 

Hector, while MacFarlane was scheming, had no idea of 


238 Spirit-of-Iron 

impending treachery. MacFarlane hid his resentment well. 
Hector thought he knew nothing. 

Then, one day, came enlightenment, through a paragraph 
published by his old enemy, the Prophet: 

‘An interesting story anent a prominent gentleman fre¬ 
quently dealt with in these columns has just reached us 
through an unimpeachable medium. It will come as no 
surprise to many of our readers, but will enlighten others 
who do not know the real character of the individual placed 
in a high position of authority in this district by an unmerci¬ 
ful Providence and an inefficient Department. This indi¬ 
vidual poses as one whose feet have always walked in the 
straight way. It appears that the pose is far from genuine. 
The plain truth is that when he first came to the country, 
in the early days, he carried on a liaison with a pretty little 
squaw, the daughter of a chief. This understanding (we use 
the mildest word) continued for several years until the gen¬ 
tleman—his status entitles him to be thus spoken of— 
apparently tired of it and dropped the matter. But Nemesis 
arose. During the suppression of certain disturbances of a 
decade ago, in which he played a leading part, the lady re¬ 
appeared, only to die in his arms. One story states that, 
fearing embarrassment, he shot her himself; another, that 
he owes his success in the operations to the information she 
gave him. Be that as it may, the romance (again we omit 
an uglier word) ended there. So runs the tale—which we 
know to be true. A man of this type, who looks no higher 
than an Indian girl and carries on an intrigue of this char¬ 
acter, is not fit to hold the position he does. His chief has 
long protected him; but we look to his colleagues to insist 
that one who so blots the fair name of their organization is 
sent to the obscurity whence he came.’ 

Hector at once saw that this outburst referred to himself. 
The woman in the case was, of course, Moon. Someone 
had told Welland, lately back from the East, of her infatua¬ 
tion and death. Welland had recognized the opportunity of 
wounding him with the most deadly weapon he could employ, 
putting the worst construction on the story, and giving just 


The Clash 239 

enough information to enable the curious to identify the 
villain of the piece if they took the trouble. 

The refined ingenuity of the assault was extraordinary. 
Hector could not silence the story, because that would be an 
admission of his concern in it. He could not deny it for 
the same reason. All he could do was to suffer in silence, 
while it went the round and his name was connected with it 
and he was made the victim of every slander men could lay 
tongue to. That was the terrible part. He could have faced 
anything physical, something he could fight, without a qualm. 

And then would come Moon’s degradation. For Moon, 
though she was ‘only an Indian/ he would have battled 
against any odds, because she had served and loved him. To 
save her from intolerable libel he would have given his life. 
He could do nothing. 

He wondered if his intimacy with Moon had been pre¬ 
ordained so that, in time, it might be in the instrument to 
strike him down. It seemed so, for Welland could have 
found no more effective weapon. 

One hope remained. The story might not gain ground. 
If it gained ground, he would be forced to resign. 

He searched for the traitor in his mind and suddenly 
recognized him—MacFarlane. The traitor was his friend— 
his friend—whose honour he had protected under a tempta¬ 
tion which might well have been irresistible. 

MacFarlane was the only man who knew of his first rela¬ 
tions with Moon; from the men who had witnessed her 
death, he had learned the rest. MacFarlane had twisted facts 
into a hideous, lying brand and placed that brand in the 
hands of his worst enemy. 

Hector did not have far to seek for his motive. 

The treachery of a trusted friend is the bitterest treachery 
any man can face. 

Hector had to face it. 

And he could not even clear himself in his friend’s eyes, 
for that would show up Mrs. MacFarlane in her true colours 

and break MacFarlane’s heart. 

He felt himself suddenly deserted, standing up alone 


240 Spirit-of-Iron 

under a rain of blows, blows from behind as well as from 
in front—blows from behind—crushing- 

And set his teeth to endure. 

v 

“Mac,” said Hector, “come over to my quarters and smoke 
a pipe. I want a word with you.” 

MacFarlane could not well refuse. He followed his chief 
through the snow. 

“Now, Mac”—when they were comfortably seated—“we’ll 
talk a certain matter over, man to man.” 

MacFarlane, under heavy, frowning brows, searched his 
face. Hector was pale, with shadows under his eyes, as if 
he had not slept well for several nights. MacFarlane sensed 
vaguely the gist of what his chief was going to say. 

“All right, Hec’,” he said, striving to be thoroughly at 
home. “What is it?” 

“You’ve seen this?” 

Hector pushed over a folded newspaper—the Prophet, 
containing the story of Moon. 

Despite himself, MacFarlane could not quite conceal his 
uneasiness. After a moment he pushed the paper back. 

“Well ?” he challenged. 

“Do you know to whom that paragraph refers? No? It 
refers to me. The girl is Moon-on-the-Water, daughter of 
Sleeping Thunder, of the Assiniboines. You remember her, 
of course?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“The story in outline is true. The details are false. There 
never was anything between that woman and me. She was 
accidentally shot by my trumpeter in the uprising. She told 
me the way the rebels had taken, and died—I suppose, in 
my arms. I did owe a great deal to her, because of that 
information. I never pretended that I did not. You know 
that, Mac.” 

MacFarlane stared fiercely at the floor. 

“Mac, the Indians, at least of those days, had fine prin- 



The Clash 241 

ciples. Among other things, they believed in purity—their 
women took an oath of purity and the penalties for those 
who broke it were very heavy. Our superior white people 
have nothing like that oath or law. They don’t take a public 
vow of that kind; they don’t suffer as the Indian woman 
suffered when she overstepped the law. That poor Indian 
girl, who knew nothing of the refinements of civilization, 
so called, was as good as gold—far better than many white 
women.” 

MacFarlane clenched his fists restlessly. Every word 
drove into him like a driven nail. 

“Mac, that story’s a lie!” Hector’s hand crashed suddenly 
to the table. “Never, never, never was there anything be¬ 
tween that girl and me. I know I can’t prove it. I know 
that twenty papers have taken up the yarn and if the man 
who printed it had his way it would be all over Canada, with 
the names filled in—the gossips have coupled us with it now, 
as it is. That’s the hell of it—I can’t fight it—can’t prove 
what I say or speak a word in defence of either of us. But 
it’s a lie! Now, listen, Mac. The only man who knew of 
my earlier relations with Moon sits in this room at this 
moment. You gave that story to Molyneux—my worst 
enemy—and I thought you were a friend of mine.” 

MacFarlane had never suspected that Hector would guess. 
But now, when cornered, he made no attempt to deny the 
charge—though it marked him as a traitor. 

“Mac—why did you do it?” 

Hector’s voice came quietly to him. Then the thought of 
his fancied wrongs flamed into his brain. 

“You know why I did it, damn you—you know! How in 
God’s name can you sit there and ask me ‘Why’ ?” 

He pounded the chair with his fists. 

“Yes, I do ask you ‘Why.’ Mac, this thing has tortured 
me for many nights now. I suspected you and I can’t rest 
till you tell me the truth. And you don’t leave this room 
till you do.” 

MacFarlane uttered a tremendous growl, rose heavily and 
stamped furiously ’round the room. 


242 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Christ!” he almost shrieked, wheeling suddenly to glare 
at Hector, chest heaving, face aflame. “Do I need to tell 
you? My soul, you’ve got gall! What happened in this 
room while I was away?” 

It was out now! 

He expected to see his companion flinch; but, except for 
the slightest tightening of the jaw, Hector’s face gave no 
sign. Instead, he rose slowly and walked over until he was 
face to face with MacFarlane, looking down on him. 

“You ask,‘What happened ?’ I’ll tell you. Your wife lost 
her way returning from the Quadrille Club. Wandered 
’round until exhausted. Finally stumbled on my quarters, 
the only place showing a light. She was nearly frozen. I 
gave her brandy and warmed her up. Then my servant, 
Blythe, took her home. If you wish to descend to such 
evidence”—this was a two-edged shaft, though Hector did 
not know it, and it seared MacFarlane's soul—“you can 
ask him if this isn’t so. Or ask your wife.” 

MacFarlane seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit. 

“Surely, Mac, you can trust me. You’ve known me twenty 
years and never have you had cause-” 

“No, I don’t trust you! I can’t trust you! Haven’t I 
eyes, ears, senses ? I don’t believe you! I know what passed 
in this room. Your excuse is a lie—do you hear?—a lie!” 

“Mac, you call me treacherous—in effect, you do—a false 
friend—the lowest animal on earth. And yet you’ve no 
proof. On the other hand, you admit treachery to me. How 
can you reconcile the two?” 

“How can I? Because you’ve given me cause for treach¬ 
ery, as you call it, by your own treachery. An eye for an 
eye, my lad! I told Molyneux that story and I think I’d 
good reason for it. And if it breaks you, well and good. 
You and your virtuous In’juns! Pah! Moon-on-the-Water 
better than many white women-” 

“Be careful, Mac; be careful!” 

Hector’s face was paler now than ever, and at mention of 
Moon’s name he seized MacFarlane by the shoulders in an 
iron grip. 




The Clash 243 

But MacFarlane wrenched himself away and raved on. 

“Hell! You’re no saint! You’re just a man, like the rest 
of us! The story’s true! You can have a taste of what I’ve 
put up with, now! And you can do what you please.” 

“Mac, is that your last word?” 

“You’re damn right it is!” 

“Very well. If this thing finishes me, I shall have the 
satisfaction of knowing that I’m not the first man who’s had 
a friend named Judas. Some day, Mac, you’ll realize the 
truth. And then I hope you’ll have regret for what you’ve 
done and said. Please close the door as you go out.” 

Two days later MacFarlane and Mrs. MacFarlane were 
suddenly transferred to Edmonton. 

vi 

Hector was surprised to receive this letter from Mac¬ 
Farlane : 

‘My Dear Adair : 

‘This is going to be the hardest thing I ever wrote. Two 
months ago, you remember, you told me some day I’d realize 
the truth. The day has come. The Commissioner put me 
right. When he was up here last week, I went to him like 
a skunk to try and help the Prophet story along; but it didn’t 
work. The Commissioner’s too strong a man and too good 
a friend of yours to listen to gossip. Then he told me that 
you’d arranged my transfer here and indicated that he had 
guessed why. You had told him nothing of what had passed 
between us, he said. He also pointed out to me just how 
you would have acted had you been the hound I said you 
were—sending me away on duty and that kind of thing, as 
is sometimes done in the Services. Take this from me, 
Hector, I know where I am now and what I’ve been—a 
blind fool and a swine. God knows if I can ever save you 
from the consequences of what I did; but I’m going to do 
my best. The Commissioner thinks the story will die a 


244 


Spirit-of-Iron 

natural death. I hope so, if I can’t kill it myself. I can’t 
ask your pardon—I don’t deserve it. But love is blind— 
and sometimes crazy. I know I was. Keep a good heart, 
Hector. You’re too good a man to be downed by a story of 
that kind anyway. 

*' Yours, Mac/ 


So MacFarlane had come to earth at last! 


Chapter IV 


i 

In the early springtime, over a year after Hector’s receipt 
of MacFarlane’s bitter apology, a notorious half-breed horse- 
thief and cattle-rustler named Whitewash Bill was being 
conveyed, under escort, to the cells at Broncho. A favour¬ 
able opportunity presenting itself, the said Whitewash Bill 
succeeded in making his escape. Hector turned out scouts 
and patrols, which traced the wanted man to the nearest 
Indian reserve. At the reserve they ascertained that he had 
secured food and horses and had again taken flight. All 
detachments were warned and the entire machinery of the 
Broncho district was set going with the object of landing 
Whitewash Bill. 

Thus began one of the most famous Western Canadian 
man-hunts; on one side the Mounted Police, parties of special 
constables recruited from the settlers and cowboys, Indian 
scouts and trackers, all directed and controlled by the sleep¬ 
less brain and strong hand of the great ‘Spirit-of-Iron’; 
on the other one lone desperado of tremendous endurance 
and fanatical courage, secretly aided by his own kinsmen 
and by others whose sympathy was with the criminal class. 

Money was also on the side of the law—and money talks 
very freely. The big ranchers, who had suffered much at 
the hands of Whitewash Bill, put up a reward of several 
thousand dollars for the capture of the quarry, dead or alive. 

The hunt ranged from the foothills to the heart of the 
great plains, over the 27,000 square miles of the Broncho 
district. The days became weeks, the weeks months; the 
horse-thief rode and starved himself to the point of exhaus¬ 
tion; the Mounted Police searched and prodded, cast and 
recast their net, watched, tracked, questioned—and White¬ 
wash Bill remained untaken. The district fretted, nerves on 

245 


246 Spirit-of-Iron 

edge, the whole country ready to see a Whitewash Bill in 
every swaying tree or under any shadowed boulder. The 
real Whitewash Bill danced to and fro through the fog of 
uncertainty like a will-o’-the-wisp. He stole the horses of 
a civilian posse from the stable while it sought a much- 
needed meal in a settler’s kitchen. Constable Jinks, making 
bread on detachment, heard a noise behind him and saw 
Whitewash Bill in the act of riding off with a bag of oats 
from the store-house in rear. Jumping out, the policeman 
fired a shot, but his hands were thick with dough and he 
missed. Cornered in a tent by a party under Lone-Elk- 
Facing-the-Wind, the criminal cut his way out through the 
back and shot off the scout’s hat as he sped away. Trapped 
in a barn wherein he sought temporary refuge and a sleep, 
he was smoked out but managed somehow to give his enemies 
the slip under cover of the flames from the barn, which he 
set on fire. In the course of his meanderings, he killed a 
settler who refused to help him and shot down a buck police¬ 
man, who was now in hospital on the verge of dying. After 
that, Broncho district lay in bed and trembled, not daring to 
move, while Whitewash Bill rummaged like a great rat, in 
the larder and galloped off into the night as soon as satisfied. 

When the chase had lasted long enough to cause anxiety 
and give the critics of the Police a chance, the worst hap¬ 
pened. 

Mr. Steven Molyneux saw the glorious opportunity and 
opened fire with all his broadsides on the director of the 
hunt, ‘Spirit-of-Iron.’ 

n 

Mr. Molyneux’s energies had not been fully turned against 
Hector for over a year—not, in fact, since his attempt to 
discredit his opponent through the story told him by Mac- 
Farlane had failed. In relying on that story, the politician 
had not taken into account the lapse of time. Most people 
had forgotten the minor events which preceded the coming 
of the railway, and even the romantic tale of the Indian girl 
who died in the arms of a Mounted Police officer during 

o 


The Clash 247 

the revolt was remembered by few. He had also failed to 
account for the feelings held by this handful for Adair— 
feelings which kept their mouths close shut. Again, he had 
not calculated on the sporting spirit which favours the 
weaker side. Finally, he had overlooked the ignorance of 
Easterners on Western matters. The story had lived a long 
time, but the principals had remained anonymous in spite 
of the politician’s broadest hints. So the dirty coup was 
by this time in its grave. 

Molyneux—formerly Joseph Welland—was much too 
clever to go on fighting with a broken sword. He decided 
that the only way to kill his man was by catching him in 
some glaring inefficiency. So he had lain low, awaiting that 
inefficiency, which, he argued, must come sooner or later. 

In the meantime, he went on organising his political forces 
and undermining Hector’s position. 

His power constantly increased. He was fast making 
money, in real estate, railway stocks and cattle. In a few 
years he hoped to become a director in one of the big lines. 
Sedulously serving their interests, he had been rewarded by 
admission to their inner ring. He had built up a small 
combine in cattle, which was soon to become a large one, 
giving him a decisive voice in the market throughout the 
Territories. And so with grain. Politically, he possessed 
much strong support. 

The skyrocket was climbing steadily towards its zenith. 

On the face of it, the politician should have found it easy 
to crush the policeman, for he enjoyed wide power. 

That power was now let loose. 

Welland chose his time admirably. A restless, frightened 
country found in the Prophet's first tirade only an echo of 
their own sentiments. What more natural than that the 
Eastern papers should gradually follow suit? What more 
natural than that paternal M. P.’s, animated by only the 
purest motives, should in their turn rise to their feet in the 
Dominion House and ask the Right Hon. This and the Hon. 
That whether, in view of the so-and-so in the Territories, 
they did not think, etc., etc., etc.? These things fanned the 
flames. In due course it became evident that public opinion. 


248 Spirit-of-Iron 

as a whole, believed that the Mounted Police were lamentably 
failing. Thence it was an easy step to the day when wise¬ 
acres in every part of the Dominion showered the hunters 
with advice and criticism. And gradually the matter crystal¬ 
lised into one indisputable fact: that if Mr. Whitewash Bill 
was not taken, and taken soon, someone would have to resign. 

That someone was Superintendent Adair. 

Led by the big ranchers—Jim Jackson could not control 
them—the people and the papers did their best to assist the 
hunt by hounding on the Police in general and the com¬ 
mander of the Broncho district in particular. ‘What are the 
Police doing?’ shrieked the papers. They censured Hector’s 
dispositions, recommending marvellous sweepings and watch¬ 
ings, as if the hunt had an army at its command or was 
playing blind-man’s buff in a nursery rather than a perilous 
game of you or me over an area as large as Scotland. When 
he exercised patience, they demanded vigorous action. When 
he gave them vigorous action, they talked of needless loss 
of life. 

So they hounded him. Yet the hounding did no good. 
What is the use of lashing a dog when he is definitely 
checked on a lost scent? 

Behind it all, carefully encouraging the detractors, stood 
the disinterested but righteously indignant Mr. Molyneux. 

On the other hand, one paper alone maintained a violent 
counter-offensive—the Branding-Iron. Tom Williams be¬ 
lieved in plain words, thrown straight. He threw them. At 
a critical stage, unfortunately, Mr. Molyneux sued Mr. Wil¬ 
liams for libel. Pending trial, the judge ordered the Brand¬ 
ing-Iron to leave the politician alone. Justice was thus 
deprived of a powerful ally. Injustice ranted on. 

In the midst of this storm, apparently sublimely indifferent 
either to friend or foe, invulnerable, immovable, acting only 
as he thought best and not as others thought, cunning when 
he thought it wisest to be cunning, reckless when, in his 
view, the need arose, the leader of the hunt, ‘Spirit-of-Iron,’ 
stood up alone, ‘four-square’—as Williams put it—‘to every 
wind that blew.’ 


The Clash 249 

Whitewash Bill?—merely the pawn in this great contest 
between Right and Wrong! 

Upon his escape or capture depended now—as Hector 
knew and Molyneux knew—whether Superintendent Adair 
or Joseph Welland was to be victorious in their private 
battle. 


hi 

One afternoon in May, when the hunt had been in prog¬ 
ress nearly three months and the unrest was at its height, 
there came to Superintendent Adair a certain Broncho clergy¬ 
man. His name was Northcote. He was a big man—big 
physically, mentally, spiritually, with a fine, deep voice that 
reminded one of his own pipe organ, and a noble head, as 
dignified as a Caesar’s. In fact, he looked like a Caesar, for 
he was clean-shaven, ruddy and strong of face and besides 
was blessed with a look of kindliness seldom seen in portraits 
of the old Emperors. Sensible, broad-minded, tolerant, the 
Rev. Mr. Northcote well deserved his nickname of the 
‘Human Parson.’ Naturally, he was- now, and always had 
been, on Hector’s side. 

Hector had just come in from thirty-six hours in the sad¬ 
dle, covered with mud, hungry and quite comfortably tired— 
he had almost lived in the saddle for weeks now—but he 
welcomed the clergyman, who never bothered him without 
good cause. 

They shook hands warmly. Northcote began. 

“I’ve no idea of the present situation as regards White¬ 
wash Bill, Major, except that he’s still at liberty and I don’t 
want to worry you with questions that don’t concern me. 
But I want to give you some information I think you ought 
to know; and it’s on good authority.” The clergyman 
dropped his voice and spoke with great caution. “There’s 
a certain element—smaller ranchers, low-class men in Bron¬ 
cho, cowboys who know no better—that is planning just 
now —to lynch Whitewash Bill when you take him l” 

“I see. The details?” 

“Well, so far as they go, are simply this: as soon as White- 


250 Spirit-of-Iron 

wash Bill is arrested, they’ll ride out to the scene of action, 
take him away from the escort, and string him up. If they 
don’t do that, they’re to storm the barracks and hang him 
from a telegraph pole.” 

“The idea being, I suppose, to take it out of the man who’s 
terrorized the country and to set an example to would-be 
outlaws of the future?” 

“That’s about it, Major.” 

“Perhaps it will also show that we can’t protect our prison¬ 
ers when we have got them or see that the law takes its 
course—eh ?” 

“That also may have influenced them.” 

“Do you know who’s at the bottom of it? Or the ring¬ 
leaders ?” 

“No. But men with the country’s good at heart who are 
yet afraid to be seen giving information to you or even to 
mention any names to me, have tipped me off.” 

“And you—?” 

The big parson smiled. 

“Well, you’ve had enough trouble, Major, without this 
thing being added; and there’s never been a lynching in 
Canada—” 

“It’s good of you, Northcote. It happens I already know 
of this plot. Despite what’s said of us, we’re not quite 
asleep.” 

“Good. Well, I won’t waste your time any further.” 

“Just a minute,” said Hector. “You may be interested 
in the present situation.” 

“Yes!” said the parson eagerly. 

“It’s this. Whitewash Bill has worked his way to very 
near the boundary. Three days ago we thought we had him 
cornered. He slipped away during the night—the party on 
the spot was too small to hem him in. Since then we’ve com¬ 
pletely lost him. I’m afraid, if we don’t pick him up again 
in a very short time, it will mean—” 

“Don’t say—” 

“—That he’s slipped into the States. And that means the 
end—and my resignation.” 

“Oh, that’s impossible.” 


The Clash 251 

It isn t. The uproar is so great that the man who fails 
will have to suffer. We’re at the climax now. It will all 
be over in two or three days.” 

“But the people won’t stand for it, Major. They know 
you’ve done your best. They trust you.” 

“Do they? We’ll see. Of course, there’s hope yet. The 
men are at boiling point. If they sight Whitewash Bill 
again, he 11 never get away. I’ve ordered him taken alive, 
though, which makes it rather more difficult.” 

“You’ve every honest man behind you, Major.” 

“Pleased to hear it. Well, there’s the situation.” 

At the door, the clergyman paused. 

“Can you give me any message—to those who sent me?” 

“You can tell them—first, that Whitewash Bill will be 
taken alive; second, there will be no lynching.” 

The Rev. Mr. Northcote beamed. 

“There’s a big mob thinks otherwise, I’m pretty sure, 
Major. But what Manitou-pewabic says is pretty sure to go. 
The rest of us are satisfied.” 

And he closed the door softly behind him. 

IV 

At dawn, two days after Mr. Northcote’s visit, a despatch 
rider clattered into barracks with word that Cranbrook had 
again cornered Whitewash Bill, this time at a point fifteen 
miles south of the Piegan Crossing. 

This put an end to a terrible period of suspense, which 
had held Hector inactive at Broncho—where, as director of 
operations, he had been forced to remain while his whole 
future was being decided somewhere out in the vast darkness. 

He could now take action. He had already decided what 
to do. He feared neither the outlaw nor the would-be lynch¬ 
ers. The latter, especially, he held in contempt. 

Awaiting news, he had spent the whole night awake, and 
fully dressed. It was a matter of a moment to fling on cap, 
gauntlets and revolver and hurry over to the orderly-room, 
where Forshaw was keeping watch, a matter of a minute 


252 Spirit-of-Iron 

or two to order out Donaldson’s four-horse team and the 
two constables, Dunsmuir and Kellett, who were standing by. 

The railway from Broncho approached the Piegan Cross¬ 
ing by such a circuitous route that it was quicker to proceed 
to the scene of action across country. Except for Donny’s 
team and the Superintendent’s own horse, which was played 
out with the hard work of the past few weeks, the only 
horses in barracks were crocks. Every sound animal was 
out with the hunting patrols. Hector wanted to take Forshaw 
and the two constables with him because he knew Cranbrook 
was short-handed. The only way to do so was for the whole 
party to drive with Donaldson the thirty miles to the spot 
where Whitewash Bill was lurking. 

In less than twenty minutes after the receipt of the 
despatch they were on the trail. 

The trumpeter sounded 'Reveille' as they rattled out of 
the barrack-gate—just as his long-silent predecessor had 
sounded it when, as a buck constable, Hector left Fort 
Macleod with Sergeant-Major Whittaker to make his first 
arrest twenty long years before. Was this a sign that the 
present arrest would be his last? 

As the sun rose, they came full upon an immense herd 
of drifting cattle. It was the time of the spring round-up 
and the punchers all over the Broncho district were hard at 
work. The herders, statuesque on their ponies against the 
cool glow of the morning, crooned a cowboys' lullaby while 
the trap slowly made its way through the herd. They 
touched their hats to the Superintendent. In a little gully, 
beside the chuck-wagon, the cook was boiling coffee. 

Hector's mind went back to the day when, in company 
with the old 'originals’ of the Force, he had cleaved his way 
through as immense a herd, a herd of the vanished buffalo. 

What changes he had seen! Twenty years in the North- 
West, growing with it and watching it grow, developing with 
it and helping it to develop! A lifetime given to his country 
—and was he to be broken, now, by an upstart parasite bat¬ 
tening on the blood and sweat of better men? 

“Push on, Donaldson, push on!” 


The Clash 253 

“Can’t go any quicker till we’re out o’ this, sir,” answered 
Donny sturdily. 

But get there—get there—get there—before it’s too late! 

Clear of the herd, they dashed onward again at breakneck 
speed, Donny handling the ribbons like a veritable Jehu. 
Round corners on two wheels; down into hollows with a 
terrific bump; up steep slopes at a canter; mile after mile 
left behind; and the two constables in the back seat, hanging 
on like leeches, looked at each other through the dust and 
grinned. 

“Chief’s crazy!” muttered Dunsmuir, sideways, through 
his teeth. “This is pounding my ruddy tail off!” 

They sighted the river—broad and deep and silver-grey, 
winding slowly through shouldering rollers of drab brown 
land. Donny swung his sweating horses down towards the 
ford—swung them, drove them on—halted— 

“What are you stopping for?” 

The chief’s voice lashed him unmercifully. 

“It looks very tricky, sir,” Donny answered doubtfully, 
with a thoughtful hand to his big moustache. “Over the 
horses’ heads, I should say, sir. How about the other ford, 
sir ?” 

“Ten miles up? No!” 

“He’s going to drown the lot of us,” whispered Kellett. 

Hector seemed to catch the thought though he had not 
heard the words. 

“If you’re afraid to go on, any of you, you can get out,” 
he said. 

Afraid to go on! Who would admit it, when he put it 
that way? 

“All right, Forshaw?” 

“All right, sir!” 

“Then push on, Donaldson!” 

Donny squared his jaw and put the whip to the horses. 
They plunged forward, into the river. 

In a moment the icy water reached the hub of the wheels; 
then the horses’ bellies; then lapped over the floor of the 
trap; and surged around the breasts of the gallant leaders. 


254 Spirit-of-Iron 

‘‘Hup there, Sir John! Hup, Laurier! Hup there, Aber¬ 
deen!” shouted Donny. 

The horses were swimming now, thrashing out desper¬ 
ately, in the middle of the river. The wagon floated after 
them, like a crazy barge, rocking'to and fro and occasionally 
grounding on unseen boulders. 

“Sit still behind,” ordered Hector grimly, the water round 
his knees. “Sit tight and don’t move!” 

“If she turns over, we’re done,” said Kellett to Dunsmuir. 
“Don’t do that, you fool. Think we want to be drowned 
because you’re afraid of wetting your plutocratic hoofs? 
How deep is it hereabouts?” 

“About twenty feet, I guess!” drawled Dunsmuir. 

Near the bank, Donny flogged the plunging horses and 
called on them with the most lurid language in the calendar. 
A crashing collision with a sunken rock that almost turned 
them over, Hector throwing his weight in the right direction 
in the nick of time; a wild struggle on the part of the leaders 
to gain a footing on the slippery ground; Donaldson, re¬ 
sponding to a fierce ‘Give me the reins!’ went overboard, 
neck-deep, to drag his horses round; a last upheaval; and 
they rolled out on dry land, out of the reluctant fingers of 
imminent death. 

Hector gave Donaldson a nip of whiskey, and a short rest. 
Then the trap dashed forward anew. 

Far off, on the horizon, as they advanced, they saw a long 
train of crawling, white-tilted wagons, belonging to one of 
the many parties of farmer-settlers now pouring into the 
country,—symbol of still another change, impending, when 
the stockmen’s supremacy would be challenged by the grow¬ 
ers of grain. A few years more and the plains would be 
fenced and agleam with acres and acres of wheat, the Ter¬ 
ritories would leap to Provinces and Western Canada would 
take her place as a great power in the land, providing those 
twin necessities, bread and meat, to the whole wide world. 

A lifetime given to the furtherance of these changes—and 
was the evil force which had come with them to cut him 
down? 

“Push on, Donaldson, push on!” 


The Clash 255 

The river was five miles behind them now, the sun well 
risen. Suddenly the distances conceived a horseman, who 
came rapidly towards them, leading two horses. 

It was Dandy Jack, one of Cranbrook’s party for some 
weeks past. Cranbrook, anticipating his chief, had sent the 
young puncher to meet them with horses for the Superin¬ 
tendent and the Adjutant, so that they might get the sooner 
to the scene of action. 

“What news, Jack?” 

Hector shot out the question as the trap pulled up. 

Jack flung a hand to his sombrero and smiled. Though 
he had been constantly in the saddle for days, the angel¬ 
faced boy looked as fresh and faultlessly turned out as ever. 

“Got him still cornered, Major. He’s in a little hollow 
’bout an hour’s hard ride from here. Quite a* big bunch o’ 
cattlemen come up last night an’ this mornin’. Mr. Cran¬ 
brook said I was to guide you an’ to ask you to hurry, if 
it don’t hurt you any.” 

“All right, Jack! No, never mind the stirrups! Donald¬ 
son, follow as quickly as you can. Come along, Forshaw! 
We’ve got to get there in time!” 

With that, they swung to the saddle and thundered off 
across the prairie. 

“God, I’d give my eyes to be in at the death!” groaned 
Kellett, as he watched his chief disappear. 

v 

Behind a ridge Hector found assembled a large and noisy 
crowd. Cranbrook, mounted, stood in the centre, heatedly 
arguing. Then he saw Hector, with obvious relief. Shoul¬ 
dering his horse through the throng, he cantered over. The 
stockmen, recognizing Hector, fell to uneasy muttering 
among themselves. If any man could baulk them of their 
prey it was Adair; and they knew it—and were correspond¬ 
ingly disgruntled. 

“I’ve got a ring of scouts round his hiding-place, sir,” 
Cranbrook said. “Lone-Elk-Facing-The-Wind picked up 
his trail near here just before dusk last night. He can’t 


256 Spirit-of-Iron 

escape, but he’s too dangerous to rush. So I thought I’d wait 
till you came.” 

“You did right,” replied Hector. “And these—are the 
lynchers, I suppose? Yes? Then leave them to me.” 

The stern face set. Here was something physical to meet 
and overcome—at last. 

“Boys,” he told the crowd, checking his horse in front of 
them, “what’s this I hear about lynching? That’s tenderfoot 
talk. The man will be taken alive and properly tried. If 
he’s guilty of murder, rest assured he’ll get what’s coming 
to him. But he’s entitled to a fair trial and he’s going to 
have it. There’s never been a lynching in Canada and there’s 
not going to be one now.” 

A storm of hostile shouts and a yell: “Who’ll stop us?” 

“I will. I will—and my men.” 

More tumult; and the crowd, hands on guns, grew threat¬ 
ening. 

“Your men. Hell! You’ve only got five or six. We’re 
twenty to one.” 

“There’ll be no lynching all the same.” 

The crowd hooted. A huge puncher, built on the lines 
of a grizzly bear, shouted Hector down and began to ha¬ 
rangue his companions, asking if they were afraid of one 
man and were going to let him dictate to freeborn citizens 
who had been deeply wronged. 

“Look out!” shouted a little man on the outskirts, seeing 
the fighting look fast taking possession of Hector’s face. 
But the words were lost in the tumult. 

Hector quietly dismounted, tossing the reins to Cranbrook, 
who had also dismounted, and faced the big puncher. 

“Another word from you, my friend, and—” 

For answer the man whirled a violent blow at Hector’s 
head and his hand flashed to his hip. Hector smashed in 
his right, all the pent-up emotion of days behind it. The 
big puncher hurled crashing to the ground among his friends. 

“Anyone else want any? All right. We’ll take him up 
for inciting to riot. Now, boys, do as I tell you and go 
home.” 

The spirit of the mob was broken. One prompt, telling 


The Clash 257 

blow, backed by absolute firmness in the face of great odds 
and the thing was done. 

To deal with Whitewash Bill remained. And on White¬ 
wash Bill depended everything. 

Hector turned to Cranbrook and, to Cranbrook’s astonish¬ 
ment, he was smiling. 

“Now for the outlaw. I want you to point out where 
he is.” 

Cranbrook, handing the horses over to Dandy Jack, led 
him forward. Forshaw followed. 

“Easy here, sir. Keep low,” said Cranbrook. 

They stole on until they could look round the shoulder of 
the ridge. 

“He’s in those bushes,” Cranbrook stated, pointing to a 
small thicket about seventy-five yards away. 

“I see,” said Hector. “Well, now’s the time.” 

And he took off his greatcoat and gauntlet, revealing his 
scarlet tunic. 

Cranbrook and Forshaw looked at each other and Forshaw 
paled a little under his ruddiness. 

“What—are you going to do, sir ?” 

“I’m going to arrest him myself. Pah, I’ll be all right. 
He daren’t shoot me. Cranbrook, go round your scouts 
and tell them to keep a lookout in case he runs for it.” 

“But—God, sir, he’ll kill you! He’s stopped at nothing. 
He’ll certainly shoot you. And what a target you’re making 
of yourself!” exclaimed Cranbrook, his concern overcoming 
his deference. 

“Best starve him out, sir,” added Forshaw. 

But Hector had long ago made up his mind. Better to 
be shot than to face dishonour; better to attempt the arrest 
himself than to force it on his subordinates. The crisis of 
the hunt had come and he did not intend to risk failure by 
leaving the work to another. 

If Welland Was to win, it would be through no fault of 
his. 

He had faced death before this, with less cause. He could 
easily face it now. 


258 Spint-of-Iron 

“Starve him out? And have him give us the slip again? 
No. Go along, Cranbrook, go along.” 

Cranbrook had to obey. Forshaw, sensing a little of what 
this business meant to his chief, said no more. But he felt 
that the Superintendent was going to his death—deliberately 
sacrificing himself to his duty. 

Cranbrook returned. 

“All right, sir.” 

“Good. When I throw up my right hand, come after me.” 

The lynchers—lynchers no longer, but firm admirers of 
the law—gathered in a tense, awe-struck group behind the 
Police officers. 

Hector loosed, but did not draw, his revolver. Then he 
walked straight out into the open, holding his arms wide, 
to show the hidden half-breed that he held no weapon. 

Absolute stillness held the world. In the sunshine, the 
steadily advancing scarlet coat gleamed like a flame, inviting 
disaster. Forshaw and Cranbrook awaited the sound of a 
rifle-shot. 

When within a few paces of the outlaw’s hiding-place, 
Hector heard the click of the breech-bolt. A brown face, 
ferociously set, peeped from among the leaves. 

“Keep off, you, keep off!” whispered Whitewash Bill. 

But the man in scarlet had three great forces on his side— 
the tremendous moral force of the coat he wore, badge, as 
it was, of the terrible North-West Mounted Police, the 
Keepers of the Law, the whole corps embodied in one lone 
individual; the great moral force of absolute fearlessness and 
determination shown in the teeth of certain destruction; the 
stupendous moral force of the personality which the Indians 
dreaded and respected and which the outlaw himself had 
long known—the personality typified in the name ‘Spirit-of- 
Iron.’ 

These three moral forces faced the half-breed now. 

“Keep off,” he repeated, “or I shoot.” 

“You daren’t shoot me,” the white man’s voice came to 
him, remorselessly. “D’you hear, Bill? You dare not shoot 
me. See! My hands are empty—but you dare not shoot 
me, just the same. . . 


The Clash 


259 


VI 

That night, in every part of Canada, the printing-presses 
roared out their headlines, headlines which were once to 
have doomed and damned: 

WHITEWASH BILL CAPTURED! SUPERINTENDENT ADAIR'S 
GREAT VICTORY! GALLANT COMMANDER OF HUNT 
TAKES MURDEROUS OUTLAW SINGLE-HANDED! 
WITHOUT USING A WEAPON ! A LYNCHING 

averted! enemies discomfited! 

SPIRIT-OF-IRON ! 



t 


book four: Coup-de-Grace 



BOOK FOUR: Coup-de-Grace 

Chapter I 

i 

The great spring rush down the Black Elk River to the 
gold-fields of Discovery had begun. 

From the town of Nugget, where they had passed the 
winter, a great host of fortune-seekers, lured thither by the 
call of Greed from the four corners of the earth, was now 
on the move. The surface of the river was white with their 
sails, black with their hulls. Hector, commanding the 
Mounted Police in Black Elk Territory, sat on a hill above 
Nugget and watched the fleet set out. Like Moses, he medi¬ 
tated over his innumerable flock of tenderfeet as they passed 
in review below him. 

The backbone, veins, arteries, in fact the whole organism 
of the Territory centred in the Black Elk River. Rising at 
Lake Nugget, near the city of that name, the Black Elk ran 
into Lake Fortune, a fair day's sail to the north, bumped 
down a half-dozen dangerous rapids, swept through several 
sword-cut canyons, eased to a jog-trot, broadening comfort¬ 
ably the while and so, becoming ever more placid, ever more 
imposing, tumbled itself at last into Northern seas, a thou¬ 
sand miles away. Four hundred miles from Nugget, Dis¬ 
covery Creek contributed its quota of waters to the majestic 
river and at the mouth of the creek stood Discovery City. 
A chain of gigantic mountains, cleft on the coast side only 
by a single entrance, Hopeful Pass, walled in the Black Elk 
country from the Western sea and threw almost insuperable 
obstacles in the way of any attempt to reach the Territory 
bv land from the civilized Canada to the south, while the 
country between the mountains and the coast, wherein lay 

263 


264 Spirit-of-Iron 

the town of Prospect, on the sea-board, belonged to the 
United States. So Hector was isolated in the Black Elk 
country; with Hopeful Pass as his Thermopylae. 

Two classes of people inhabited this tremendous Territory: 
the original prospectors or pioneers, and the fortune-hunters 
or newcomers. The pioneers were a mere handful, long 
established, grown old and seared in the service of the North, 
some firmly settled in the new gold area, the rest working 
claims or seeking strikes in ones and twos all over the Ter¬ 
ritory. The newcomers, the tenderfeet, outnumbering the 
old hands by hundreds, the adventurers now on their way 
to the gold-fields or struggling up through Hopeful Pass in 
the rear-guard of the advance—these were the people with 
whom Hector had most to deal. 

Only a strong, stern, sane administration could guide and 
govern such a crowd as this. It represented every nation¬ 
ality, creed and race on earth. When the Archangel blows 
his trumpet to summon all men to judgment on the Last Day, 
he will simply reproduce, on a larger scale, the gathering 
then in progress in Black Elk Territory. There was in this 
gigantic mob no harmony, no discipline, no uniformity. It 
was one only in its arrogance, its greed and its ignorance. 
Hector knew its weaknesses well. He had seen it swindled, 
robbed and murdered by the Prospect gangsters. He had 
watched it fighting to make headway on the trail to Hopeful 
Pass, with dogs it could not drive, pack-horses it could not 
pack, tools it could not handle. He had seen it freezing in 
scanty clothing, starving on luxuries that should have been 
necessities, dying of weakness and disease, quarreling for 
precedence, fighting for life with ‘six-guns’ against thugs 
who made an end of the fight when it pleased them. He 
had heard it shout for joy when it won at last to the Mounted 
Police post on the summit of the Pass, sighted the Union 
Jack and scarlet coats which symbolized Law and Order, put 
away its weapons as no longer necessary and pushed on 
through the entry as though it went through the pearly gates, 
from Hell to Heaven. He had watched it settling down to 
spend its miserable winter. And, last of all, that morning, 
when the ice was finally departed, he had seen it embark— 


Coup-de-Grace 265 

men, women in tights, children, dogs, ponies, cattle, goats, 
equipment and supplies—and rejoicingly set sail on the clos- 
ing leg of its desperate journey. 

With his men, he had played father, mother and big 
brother to this extraordinary conglomeration through all the 
winter, from the moment of their entry into Canadian coun¬ 
try. He had now to see them safely to Discovery and to 
safeguard their interests and the country’s interests when 
they got there. 

For this engaging task, he had at his command unlimited 
authority and two hundred men—two hundred men among 
thirty thousand, two hundred men in a territory the size 
of France; unlimited authority, his own ability, two hundred 
men and the prestige of the Mounted Police. 

He mentally ran over the dispositions he had made: 

At Hopeful Pass, holding the keys to Heaven against all 
Hell, one Corporal St. Peter surnamed Dunsmuir with a 
dozen wingless buck policemen; at Pioneer Lake and Lake 
Miner—in the mountain chain cutting off Black Elk Terri¬ 
tory from the civilized Canada to the south—at Nugget City 
and the town of Lucky, north of Lake Nugget, and at Dis¬ 
covery Creek—to name the more important points—were 
other detachments; posts at intervals along the Black Elk 
above and below Discovery City; and, in barracks at Dis¬ 
covery City, headquarters, the jail and what was left of his 
two hundred. 

Their duties: general maintenance and enforcement of the 
law, with all it meant; imposition of punishments; arbitra¬ 
tion of any dispute, from a fight involving life and death 
to one involving the possession of a can-opener; care of the 
sick and destitute; burial of the dead; collection of taxes, 
Government royalty on gold, and of customs at Flopeful 
Pass; relaying the mails from post to post or escorting them 
by steamer to the seagoing vessel at Prospect; guarding and 
escorting gold deposits; and running the boats of the igno¬ 
rant herd through the rapids so that no lives might be lost. 

The detachments, in order to carry out all these jobs, must 
travel immense distances in the heat of summer or depth of 
winter, take their lives in their hands at least once a day and, 


266 Spirit-of-Iron 

for the rest of the time, enjoy the delights of camping in 
leaking, wind-swept tents, flooded inches deep, pitched in the 
trough of sunless valleys or on the bleak flanks of frozen 
mountains; while they received, for their pains, an average 
stipend of under a dollar a day and were not allowed to stake 
claims. 

The command was no task for a weakling. Hector remem¬ 
bered what the Commissioner had said in sending him to 
take that command six months before: ‘It’s the last bit of 
true pioneering this country will see, Adair. Carry it 
through, and you’ll have played a part in the whole show, 
from the settlement of the North-West to the end. It will 
be a big job—one of the biggest we’ve ever done—this job 
I’m giving you; but it will be a splendid thing in the way 
of a crowning achievement to all you’ve done already. Make 
it a credit to yourself and Canada.’ 

The ‘big job’ was now at hand. The spring rush marked 
its advent. The winter had been only the prelude. Hector, 
watching the boats from the hill above Nugget, sensed the 
coming battle. 

Tomorrow he would return to Discovery, there to fight 
it out. 

Dusk hiding the fleet at last from his eyes, he walked down 
to the rough shanty in Nugget where Cranbrook had his 
headquarters. 

“Corporal Dunsmuir reports a distinguished visitor arrived 
at Hopeful Pass, sir.’’ Cranbrook greeted him as he reached 
the door. “At present he’s taking a breather but will move 
on to Discovery in a few days.’’ 

“Who is it?” asked Hector. 

“Molyneux—the M. P.,” answered Cranbrook. 

ii 

“Major Adair, this is Mr. Steven Molyneux,” said the 
Lieutenant-Governor of Black Elk Territory. “I think 
you’ve met before, haven’t you?” 

A week had passed since Hector had watched the com¬ 
mencement of the great spring rush. In the Lieutenant- 


C oup-de- Grace 267 

Governor’s office in Discovery City, he shook hands with 
his enemy. 

The Lieutenant-Governor offered chairs and cigars. There 
was an awkward pause. Gentleman as he was, he hastened 
to fill it. 

“Mr. Molyneux had a pretty tough time on the way up 
here, Adair,” he said. 

“I tell you, Mr. Lancaster,” the member for Broncho 
agreed, “I was never so glad to see the Old Flag as when 
I got to the top of Hopeful Pass. That place Prospect is 
beyond description. Everything was wide open and, while 
I was there, gun-fights through the streets every hour of 
the twenty-four. I saw fellows lying dead by the roadside 
with their pockets turned inside out. If it hadn’t been for 
your Police being with me, I’d have been robbed sure. What 
a contrast between here and there! They say that Greasy 
Jones just runs Prospect. He must be a corker.” 

“He is.” 

“Don’t let him in here.” 

“Don’t worry,” said Hector. “He daren’t cross the line.” 

“There’s some pretty tough birds in Discovery, all the 
same. Can you handle ’em?” 

The Lieutenant-Governor put in his oar. 

“I’m sure we can leave that to Major Adair,” he said. 
“There’ll be no reproductions of Prospect in Canadian terri¬ 
tory while he’s here.” 

“Excuse me, Major Adair.” The politician smiled. “I 
don’t mean to be critical. I guess my nerves have been 
scraped the wrong way in the past few days, that’s all.” 

Hector answered diplomatic smile with smile. 

“That’s all right, Mr. Molyneux. How long are you here 
for? We must try to make your stay as pleasant as pos¬ 
sible.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Major. I’m here for a good 
long time. I’m just making a private visit, of course— 
going to have a look ’round and size things up in this won¬ 
derful country. I might try to get in on a good thing if I 
see it, needless to add.” 

“Quite naturally,” said Hector. 


268 


Spirit-of-Iron 

The conversation languished. The Lieutenant-Governor, 
to enliven it a little, went into the next room in search of 
liquid refreshment. 

Hector was alone with Welland for the first time in many, 
many months. 

“This gives me a good opportunity, Adair,” said the poli¬ 
tician, as soon as Lancaster had gone, “to say something I’ve 
been wanting to say ever since I got here. I really am up 
here just to look around. Tve not come up here to spy 
on you—or worry you. I know just what a hell of a job 
you have before you and I’m not going to make it harder for 
you. I’ve every confidence in your ability to run this show 
right. I want bygones to be bygones. I guess I was wrong 
in the past. It’s a hard pill for me to swallow, this. I’m a 
proud man, but—well, what d’you say?” 

This halting declaration surprised Hector. 

“You can rely on me to play the straight game, Moly- 
neux,” he answered. “My duty up here is to look after the 
interests of the country and community—nothing else. I’ve 
no quarrel with any man who keeps the law.” 

The Lieutenant-Governor returned before they could say 
more. 

“I hope you don’t think I was indiscreet, Adair ?” Lancas¬ 
ter queried anxiously, when the visitor had taken his de¬ 
parture. “I know all about Molyneux’s efforts to knife you 
in the past; but you see-” 

“Well, we had to meet some time,” Hector soothed him. 
“So why not under your roof? Where better?” 

“Exactly,” said Lancaster, much relieved. “And he can’t 
hurt you here, Adair—while I’m around.” 

“Oh, that’s all over now,” Hector replied. “We’ve just 
cried quits.” 

“Splendid!” exclaimed the Lieutenant-Governor. 

hi 

At three o’clock in the morning, when Hector was able 
for the first time to spare a thought to Welland, he pondered 
awhile. 



Coup-de- Grace 269 

His enemy’s arrival in Black Elk Territory was a serious 
thing. Though Welland’s attempt to crush him through the 
Whitewash Bill affair had failed at the eleventh hour, he 
knew very well that the Commissioner had sent him to the 
gold area not merely in order to promote him, but mainly to 
safeguard him against any further attacks. Hector’s suc¬ 
cessful handling of Whitewash Bill had made Welland a 
laughing-stock and the Commissioner had feared that the 
result would mean further and greater danger for Hector. 
He had never dreamt that Mr. Steven Molyneux, M. P., 
would follow Hector to such a remote point. And Mr. 
Molyneux—well, here he was! 

His purpose? To size up things, to get in on the gold 
claims, to look around—decidedly, yes. To make Hector’s 
administration—already difficult, as he had admitted—as 
difficult as possible, or at least to watch that administration, 
gather together all observations tending to injure Hector, 
and then to use them at Ottawa for his removal—again, yes; 
and a thousand times, yes! Hector had not been deceived 
by the friendly overtures of the afternoon. His enemy had 
come to Discovery to plot his ruin. Hector was certain of 
that. After all, why should Welland quit at this stage? If 
he had desired to revenge himself on Hector or put him 
out of the way before, he was far more likely to have that 
desire now. Hector had forced him to eat humble-pie before 
all Canada. Yet Welland, by this time, had become a domi¬ 
nating figure in Western Canadian politics. Hector was 
isolated in Black Elk Territory and unable to move from it, 
while Welland could go to Ottawa when he wished and there 
bring about his downfall. Welland had never been in a better 
position to fight the fight, never in a better position to win 
the fight, than he was at this moment. 

At the same time, Hector could have found no better arena 
for the last struggle than that of Black Elk Territory. Why? 
Because, in Black Elk Territory he was a power on a far 
superior footing to Welland, whose status was only that of 
a private individual. With the Lieutenant-Governor, his 
firm friend, he held an almost absolute authority. Even 
Welland, so long as he remained in the Territory, was en- 


270 


Spirit-of-Iron 

tirely dependent on Hector for protection—an ironical situa¬ 
tion for one who had so often attacked the Police! If 
Hector went down here, he was doomed to go down any¬ 
where ! 

What were Welland’s real plans? Time would soon tell. 
At this point Hector went to sleep on it. 


Chapter II 


i 

“What d’you want to see me for?” 

In a small, dark room in a Prospect hotel, two men sat 
facing each other over a table. 

One was Welland. 

The other was Greasy Jones, master of the gang of gun¬ 
men dominating the little American port at the head of the 
route to the Black Elk gold area. 

Greasy Jones was medium-sized, thin and wiry, a rapier 
rather than a bludgeon. His face was artistic, almost deli¬ 
cate, the nose aquiline, the cheek bones prominent, the fore¬ 
head high. His hands, spread out on the table before him, 
were long and thin, the kind of hands that are thoroughly 
at home on the keyboard of a piano. But his skin was too 
brown and rough for an artist’s or musician’s, his chin too 
prominent, his lips too thin and cruelly set, his strange 
eyes, under the overhanging brows, too hard and keen. The 
murderer overshadowed the dreamer in his face, his terrible 
hands were mobile only for the pulling of triggers. 

“What d’you want to see me for?” the gangster repeated. 
“I’m a busy man—can’t afford to waste time.” 

Welland threw a cigar-case on the table and poured out 
drinks from a convenient bottle. 

“So you came, after all,” he remarked coolly. “I doubted 
if you would.” 

The gangster pushed back his slouch hat and, leaning over, 
lit his cigar in the candle flame. The action revealed the 
heavy belt of ammunition he wore buckled over his dingy 
coat and his battery of revolvers. 

“Well, I don’t gen’lly pay no attention,” he said, smiling, 
“to strangers that stops me on the street—unless to fill ’em 
full o’ holes for their nerve. But I sized you up, Mister, as 

271 


272 Spirit-of-Iron 

diff’runt. An’ when you ast me where you could meet me 
for a talk, well—anyways, here I am.” 

“Good,” said Welland. “Now, before we talk business, 
Mr. Jones—introductions! On my part, I mean. I don’t 
need them from you.” 

“No, I guess not,” the gangster agreed. “Everybody 
knows me an’ my bunch in this here town, that’s straight. 
Well, go ahead.” 

“Right. There you are.” 

The politician, pulling out a wallet and a mass of papers, 
spread them out before the gangster. 

Greasy Jones read them leisurely. When he had finished 
he knew that his companion was Mr. Steven Molyneux, 
prominent Canadian M. P., visiting the Black Elk country 
for a ‘look ’round.’ 

This was bigger game than the gangster usually dealt with. 
He was impressed but suspicious. 

“Say,” he queried, pushing back the papers, “what’s the 
game, anyway? Seems mighty queer that a guy like you 
wants dealin’s with a guy like me. Take care, my gent, who 
you try any foolishness on. Get me?” 

“Suppose I convince you that we have something in com¬ 
mon—a good deal, in fact. Will you be satisfied?” 

“All depends,” said Greasy Jones. “Shoot.” 

In five minutes’ hard talking Mr. Welland convinced the 
skeptical gangster that he, too, had followed the crooked path 
very closely in his time. 

“That’s all right,” Greasy admitted, “but you’re a straight 
man now —anyhow, in public. This bein’ so, what I want 
to know is: what’s the game? What does a fellah ’way up 
want with a fellah ’way down, as some folks see it, like me ? 
Is it some little job you’ve got for me—cut someone’s 
throat, eh?” 

Welland smiled. 

“No, it isn’t. I want to help you.” 

“You do! By God, if you’re trying to do the dirty 
me- 

Greasy Jones flashed a hand to his hip. 

“No, no. Hear me out, can’t you?” 


on 



Coup-de-Grace 


273 


“Go ahead.” 

“All right. And keep your hand off your gun. See here, 
Mr. Jones. I got into Black Elk Territory about a month 
ago. I’ve spent most of my time going ’round having a 
look at things, with Discovery as my headquarters. Inci¬ 
dentally, I’ve got in on one or two good claims—but let that 
keep for a minute. The Mounted Police have given me a 
free hand to do as I pleased. They allow me to go through 
Hopeful Pass without question and so on. Just now, I’m 
supposed to be here looking up some goods of mine that 
have gone astray —not seeing you. You understand—a man 
in my position-” 

“Yes. Go ahead. Cut it short!” 

“Well, they don’t suspect anything. Now listen. On 
the strict Q. T., I’ve sized up the situation along the creeks 
and down here in Prospect pretty well. And I’ve found this: 
there’s a large number of men both sides the line that aren’t 
satisfied with the way the Mounted Police are running 
things.” 

“That’s right,” muttered Greasy fiercely. “The yallah- 
legged sons o’-!” 

“They aren’t satisfied,” pursued Welland, heedless of the 
interruption, “and they’d sweep them out of the country if 
they dared. A lot of men over there on the creeks aren’t 
fit to hold their claims—rich claims. There are others who 
came into the country weeks after the majority and struck 
it rich, while the rest go begging. Now, that crowd of dis¬ 
contents along the creeks think this: those fellows who aren’t 
fit to hold those fine rich claims should be told to get off. 
Those that came into the country last but struck it rich first 
should be made to hand over their claims, too. The first 
comers, and the strong men, the men that need the money, 
should have first show on all the gold on Discovery. That’s 
the way they size it up in the Black Elk country.” 

“Well—what’s that to do with me?” 

“I’m coming to that. As I was saying, that’s how it’s 
sized up there. And why isn’t it so? Because—again—of 
the Mounted Police, who have the lucky ones under their 
protection, according to the law. 




274 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Now about the men this side the line. Hundreds, even 
thousands, this side Hopeful Pass have just as much right 
to get in on the Black Elk gold as any man alive. But they 
can’t. Again—why ?” 

“Because the yallah-legs won’t let ’em,’’ muttered the 
gangster. 

“Just so. The Mounted Police call them undesirables and 
shut the door in their faces.” 

“Well, where do we come in? Cut it short, man; cut it 
short.” 

Welland took several leisurely puffs at his cigar. Then, 
leaning over, he said with marked emphasis: 

“We are in sympathy with that discontented crowd —you 
are—and I am!” 

“I am—cert’nly,” exclaimed Greasy, looking at him sus¬ 
piciously ; “but you —say!” 

“Yes, I am. Pm for justice.” 

“Like sin!” the gangster sneered. “You’re a Canadian 
M. P. You’re on the side o’ the law. Your bread’s buttered 
on that side, and you cat it.” 

“Not at all,” declared Welland. “Pm on the side of right, 
I tell you. I think the laws that govern Black Elk should 
be made at Discovery, not at Ottawa, and by the miners, not 
the Police. And the miners that make ’em should be the 
strong miners, whether in the majority or not. Might makes 
right in a new country and it ought to here. You agree?” 

“I run this town with a hundred gunmen—Pve been kep’ 
out o’ the Black Elk country by the yallah-legs—an’ he asks 
me do I agree ? Cert’nly, I agree!” 

“Then why doesn't Might make Right over there?” 

“Because o’ the yallah-legs.” 

“Just so. Yet there are only two hundred of them. A few 
men with guts could soon put them where they belong.” 

“Huh! You think so. You don’t know ’em like I do.” 

“Have you ever tried to force Hopeful Pass?” 

“What’s the good? They’ve got a Maxim and a dozen 
men in a place ’bout a yard wide! They’d mincemeat us 
before we got into gun-range. I prefer down here, sir, 
where the pickin’s is easy!” 


275 


C oup-de- Grace 

“You don’t think it could be forced? Well, what would 
you think of this? Stir up the Black Elk country from the 
inside till every man worth his salt realizes it’s time the 
Police tyranny went out. Then—just tell the Police they 
must either go or change the laws.” 

“They wouldn’t go.” 

“Suppose you showed ’em force. Eh?” 

“I think they’d fight to the last shot.” 

Welland was irritated. 

“Well, if they did fight? They could be wiped off the 
map in a minute. It would be ten to one at least.” 

The gangster frowned. 

“Suppose they are wiped out—or kicked out—or they 
change the laws to let all hands come in and give the claims 
to the deservin’. Well, what then ?” 

“Then, my friend, the men that had led the—little protest 
—would be masters of Black Elk Territory!” 

Greasy Jones thoughtfully chewed his cigar, his eyes on 
the flickering candle flame. 

“That’s so, by God!” he said at last. “But where—again 
—do I come in? I can’t get through Hopeful Pass to stir 
up trouble.” 

“No. But others can—men the Police don’t suspect-” 

“And me?” 

“You’ll run the show from this end. You’ll organize the 
whole thing—secretly, of course—and when the time comes, 
you’ll get through Hopeful Pass and take charge.” 

“Take charge?” 

“Yes. Why, can’t you see what this means? It needs 
a man with real guts, who doesn’t care a hoot in hell for 
anyone, to run this thing. You’re the man!” 

“That’s all right,” said the gangster cautiously. “I don’t 
care a hoot in hell for any man, that’s true. But I ain’t goin’ 
to jump into the Police trap in Discovery.” 

“You won’t have to go into the Black Elk Territory till 
everything’s ready. When the time’s ripe, we’ll see you get 
there all right—get there just in time to lead the boys. If 
necessary we’ll smuggle you through.” 

“An’ what’ll I get out of it?” 



276 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Haven’t I said you’d be at the top of the whole thing— 
boss of Black Elk from end to end? Remember what that 
means.” 

“I know what it means,” the gangster said, his avaricious 
eyes gleaming. “I’d have earned it, too. I guess I’d take all 
the risks. And—what’d you do?” 

“I’d help you along in every way while you organized the 
show and keep you posted on developments. There’d be one 
condition, though—I’d deal with you only; and you’d have 
to keep my name out of it.” 

Greasy nodded. 

“Yep, I see your point. ’Twouldn’t do for a Canadian 
M. P. to be mixed up in it,” he grinned. “Of course, it’s 
a long chance. S’pose the yallah-legs got wind o’ it? Or 
s’pose, if we did pull it off, they sent soldiers from Canada 
to smash us? Eh? What then?” 

“They won’t. And if they did, you’d know about it long 
before. Then you could take your pickings and ‘git.’ ” 

“Give us the idea again—and give it slow.” 

Welland complied. 

“Here’s the general scheme—details to be arranged later: 
You’ll send people into Black Elk—people the Police don’t 
suspect—to stir up trouble along the creeks; not to preach 
violence, mind you, nor yet preach anything openly, but just 
to get the boys ready. At the same time you’ll organize 
your gunmen here. When the time comes, you and your 
men get into Black Elk, finish preparing the boys, and then 
get ’em all together, on the quiet, and throw down your 
cards. Then, if the Police won’t give in, you smash ’em 
and run the country. If they do give in, you run things to 
suit yourselves, just the same. Then you get your pickings 
and clear out. While you’re getting your pickings, you get 
the U. S. Government to promise to annex the Territory. 
See ? That’ll keep the Canadian Government quiet and you’ll 
be a hero in the little old U. S.” 

“What if they don’t promise?” 

“They’ll promise, all right. Anyway, even if they don’t, 
you can tell the boys they have and that’ll give ’em all the 
heart they want.” 


277 


Coup-de-Grace 

Greasy pondered again. 

“Say, it sounds a fine idea,” he admitted at last. 

“It is a fine idea!” Welland was quick to press the open¬ 
ing. “Why, it’ll be a cinch for you. And you’ll get real 
pickings. A thousand times what you can make by robbery 
here and not a tenth the risk. Sooner or later, you’ll get 
yours if you stick at this game, whereas if you do what I 
suggest you’ll be able to drop it and live like a king.” 

“That’s so,” the gangster agreed. “Now—we might as 
well talk the thing out, while we’re at it—s’pose this thing 
falls through, in the end. What do I get for my trouble?” 

Welland smiled, as though expecting the question. 

“There’s always that possibility. And, naturally, it 
wouldn’t be fair to you to have a lot of work w r asted. 
Remember my mentioning that I’d some good claims on 
Discovery? Well, I’ll guarantee delivery to you of so much 
in dust and nuggets every month till the show’s ready. 
That’ll pay you for your trouble, won’t it? I can do it on 
the O. T. and no one the wiser.” 

“Nozv you’re sayin’ something!” declared the gunman. 
“Wait, now. S’pose I agrees—and me an’ my gang works 
this thing up and pulls it off. Where do you come in? What 
makes a man like you play with fire like this?” 

“I told you, I want to see justice done. Isn’t that good 
enough ?” 

“No, it ain’t.” 

“Well, it’s true.” 

“Say, come off. This thing’s got to be on the square 
between you an’ me or it won’t go at all. What’s the game ?” 

“That’s true, I tell you,” Welland persisted. “Of course, 
I’d expect my share of the pickings. Isn’t that good enough ?” 

“Your share— that’s more like it. Now we know!” the 
gangster grinned ironically. 

“Your answer?” 

Again the gangster became cautious. 

“I’ll have to put it to my bunch—just a few—my ‘trusty 
lieutenants,’ ” he said. “They’ll be the bed-rock o’ the whole 
show, y’see, if it comes off at all.” 

“All right. There’s no hurry,” Welland declared. “I’ll 


278 Spirit-of-Iron 

wait for your answer if you can give it inside twenty-four 
hours/’ 

“That’s all right. I’ll do it.” 

“Good. Remember—no mentioning my name.” 

“Trust me. I’ll be mum as a clam.” 

Both men were silent. Then, suddenly, the gangster spoke 
again. 

“Say, that’s a great idea!” he exclaimed. “You’re a real 
smart kid.” 

Then, before Welland could move an eye, his two revol¬ 
vers were on the table, covering the politician. 

“You see these guns?” he hissed; and his face was devil¬ 
ish. “They’ll pump you full o’ lead from head to heel if 
you’re tryin’ a double-cross on me. Get me?*’ 

“A double-cross?” asked Welland, with no sign of alarm. 
“Why should I double-cross you?” 

“That’s neither here nor there. Just you mark what I 
said, that’s all.” 

“And in return,” said Welland slowly and distinctly, 
“you’ll just remember this: if you give me away to a living 
soul, by so much as a word, I’ll see you cut to pieces. I 
know just how to get you. And I can get you when I 
please.” 

Greasy’s eyelids flickered. This man was of a type which 
was strange to him—one with whom it was not safe to trifle. 
He might have the power to do as he said. Smiling, he put 
up his weapons and rose from the table. 

“Well, I guess we understand each other, Molyneux. 
There won’t be no double-crossin’, here or here. We’re pard- 
ners, on the square—an’ no questions ast. Correct?” 

“Correct,” said Welland. 

“Then shake.” 

They shook. 

“All serene,” declared Greasy, this little ceremony over. 
“Then tomorrow, here, at eleven, if that suits you, I’ll let 
you know whether you can count me in on the—say, what’ll 
we call this thing, anyway?” 

Welland smiled. 

“The republic,” he suggested. 


279 


Coup-de- Grace 

The gangster grinned back. 

“That’s it—whether you can count me in on the republic.” 

And they parted. 

As the gunman went down the stairs, a man waiting at the 
foot shrank into a corner to escape his observation. Greasy 
passed out without seeing him, and the man resumed his post 
at the foot of the stairs, his eyes on the door of the room 
where Welland still sat. 


ii 

Six men sat ’round a table in a private room of the Eagle 
dance-hall, one of Prospect’s leading places of entertainment. 
The door was locked on the inside. Through the flimsy 
walls the blare of a brass band, shouts, shrieks and laughter 
rolled into the room from below, and an occasional outburst 
of firing told of gentlemen exchanging compliments in the 
street outside. 

At the head of the table Greasy Jones presided. His 
companions were his ‘trusty lieutenants/ the leading mem¬ 
bers of his gang. 

The prisons of all ages, the literature of all countries, 
might be raked through and through without producing a 
choicer set of villains. 

On Mr. Jones’ right sat No-nose Joe. As his nickname 
indicated, the most prominent feature of his face was absent, 
having been either shot or knocked off. Its absence added 
a final grand touch of ferocity to an already hideous, un¬ 
shaven face equipped with piglike eyes. Joe was built on a 
burly scale and was noted for deeds, not words. 

Next to Joe sat Pete, a haggard youth, pale, clean-shaven, 
sleepy-eyed, but cunning, quick and nervous in all his move¬ 
ments, like a rat. 

Monsieur Philibert was at the foot of the table. Philibert’s 
hair, what there was of it, was black, streaked with grey. 
His straggly beard was also grey, embellished by tobacco 
juice. He had bright, enquiring brown eyes and hairy hands, 
like an ape’s. Apart from a generous sprinkling of blood- 


280 


Spirit-of-Iron 

curdling adjectives, occasionally applied, his English was 
perfect. 

The fourth man, Sure-thing Kelly, was plump, ruddy and 
innocent-looking. As a smiling grocer, he would have been 
perfect. Actually, he was perfect as a smiling butcher—• 
pistols his tools. 

Spanish Alphonze brought up the rear—a sturdily built 
fellow, with slanting eyes, thin, black, drooping moustache, 
hair on end, skin the colour of a dried fig. A lady of Seville 
had decorated him in youth with a livid scar stretching from 
ear to chin. This made him interesting. 

The entire party were heavily armed after the fashion of 
their master, Greasy Jones, who was quite evidently the 
brains of the gathering. 

Having explained Welland’s scheme in his own vivid style, 
Greasy proceeded to put the finishing touches to his dis¬ 
course by answering the questions of his interested followers. 

“We are to smuggle our men in slowly, so as to have as 
many as possible over there before the show-down?” The 
query was Philibert’s. “And we go in last to take charge—• 
chiefly because we don’t want to risk being landed by the 
Police before it’s strictly necessary?” 

“Got it dead right,” grinned Greasy. 

“And the arms—for the boys already in Black Elk—the 
boys that need ’em—that we can trust? I suppose we 
smuggle the arms across as well?” 

“Right once more. Your head’s screwed on as it should 
be, Philibert!” 

“How’re we goin’ to stir the boys up?” asked Pete. 

“Well, o’ course we’ll do it secret—an’ all constitootunal! 
My friend, the nameless friend, as I told you before, he 
says they think the laws is wrong an’ should be made by 
the men in Black Elk, an’ that Might makes Right in a new 
country. This partic’lar crowd over there thinks so, I mean. 
Well, we must encourage ’em in that—on the Q. T. Tell 
’em, quiet, that if force is required, force should be used. 
Then we provides ’em that ain’t got it with the force neces¬ 
sary. 'But,’ we says, 'we won’t use no force if it ain’t 
required. Oh, no. That’d put us in bad everywhere!’ See ? 


Coup-de-Grace 281 

• 

Then we tells ’em, ‘Look who you’ve got behind you. The 
best men on the continent’s behind you’—meanin’ you an’ 
me, boys—‘an’ when the time comes, they’ll lead you on to 
vict’ry. But just now it’s a secret. See?’ An’—more ’n’ 
that!—we’ll tell ’em this: ‘The Gov’nment o’ the U-nited 
States is behind you! An’, with the U-nited States behind 
you, you can do as you damn well please!’ That’s what 
we’ll say—later on, when the time’s ripe. That’ll put guts 
in ’em. That’ll get the Yankee patriots in Black Elk as 
nothin’ else can!” 

“Say, you’re a ruddy genius, Cap,” asserted Sure-thing 
Kelly. “But say—is the U. S. really goin’ to back us up?” 

Greasy looked all ’round the table with great effect before 
replying. Then, leaning over, he whispered, smiling: 

“That is a fact, boys. I’ve got it on good authority from 
that nameless gent that the li’l old U. S. will see us through.” 

“Well, say!” exclaimed the listeners, with shining eyes. 
If anything could completely win them over to the plot, it 
was this promise of support from a great power—gratui¬ 
tously given by Greasy Jones on a hint from Welland. This 
promise, with its assurance that the great United States 
would save their coward hides if anything, by the slightest 
chance, went wrong, was a trump card. And Greasy knew 
it well. 

“Is that all clear now? We run the show from here—- 
send our boys over by ones and twos—go over ourselves 
when ready—take charge—down the yallah-legs—set our¬ 
selves up in full command—strip the country—and clear out. 
Get me?” 

“You bet!” said the trusty lieutenants. “We’re in this 
thing up to the neck!” 

“Stop a minute!” The keenly perceptive Philibert had 
one more question to ask. “Who is to do the ‘stirring up,’ 
Captain? You’ll not want any of us to put our heads in 
the lion’s mouth, I hope?” 

“No,” replied Greasy. “We’ll choose some respectables 
with the gift o’ gab from among us here in Prospect—pay 
’em well—oh, yes, we’ll have to pay ’em—an’ send ’em over 
to do the talkin’ for us. If they’re caught, that’s their look- 



282 Spirit-of-Iron 

out. But they won’t be caught. This thing’s a dead secret 
from first to last. Understand that, boys—every man keeps 
his mouth shut. Before God, if there’s a squealer, he’ll get 
his from me!” 

His lieutenants knew he would keep his word. There 
would therefore be no squealing. 

‘‘Well, boss, what do we do first?” asked Sure-thing Kelly. 

“Nothin’ just now—not a word—not a thing—till I say 
so. I just wanted to get you all in on this tonight. Now, 
fill the glasses, Pete, an’ I’ll give you something to drink to. 
Here y’are, boys”—the gangster rose to his feet, smiling 
benevolently. “To the finish o’ the yallah-legs; an’ success 
to the Black Elk Republic!” 

“The Black Elk Republic!” 

They drank. Just as he set down his glass Greasy Jones 
whipped out his revolvers and blazed a volley into the door. 
The startled men sprang up. Philbert had the door open 
in an instant. 

“Boys, there was someone listenin’ outside!” exclaimed 
the gangster, his cruel face twitching. “By God, I’ll kill the 
man that runs this joint!” 

But in the passage there was nothing. 

hi 

When Welland, his business in Prospect transacted, re¬ 
turned to Discovery, he did not know that two pairs of eyes 
held him under close observation throughout the journey. 

In telling Greasy Jones that he had come to Prospect to 
recover a shipment of goods, the politician had spoken the 
truth. Having received word of the gangster’s successful 
parley with his lieutenants, Welland traced the goods and 
hired a packer with two ponies and a partner to carry them 
through Hopeful Pass to Nugget and there transfer them to 
the side-wheeler Black Elk Belle, the packer’s partner re¬ 
maining with Welland to see them safely to Discovery, 
while the packer himself returned with his ponies to Pros¬ 
pect. 


Coup-de - Grace 283 

To the packer’s partner aforesaid belonged one of the two 
pairs of eyes which kept watch on Welland. 

The second pair did duty in the head of a quiet, unobtru¬ 
sive little miner supposed to be on his way from Prospect 
to a claim on Discovery Creek. 

Of the packer’s partner and his watch, the little miner 
knew nothing. Of the miner and his watch, the packer’s 
partner knew nothing. They worked independently. 

On arrival at Discovery, the packer’s partner saw the 
goods safely home. There the Rev. Mr. Northcote wel¬ 
comed Welland warmly. The Rev., like a true Crusader, 
believed in fighting his battles in the vanguard, where blows 
fell thickest and courage was an asset; wherefore he had 
always been a pioneer and was now in Black Elk Territory, 
youngest and wildest of Canadian communities. When Mr. 
Molyneux tired of hotel life in Discovery City, the Rev., 
swallowing his dislikes and prejudices, had offered the poli¬ 
tician half his kingdom, a little shanty not far from barracks. 
Welland had accepted. Necessity and pioneering make 
strange bed-fellows. 

The question of a job for the packer’s partner—who had 
decided to quit at Discovery—came up at that moment. 
Welland had promised to help him. The Rev. Mr. North¬ 
cote needed a general factotum. The packer’s partner had 
many qualifications. Thenceforth he became Lord Cham¬ 
berlain to Mr. Northcote and assumed the name of Charlie. 
That night Charlie wrote a short note and posted it at the 
barracks. It was addressed to the packer in Prospect. But 
it was intended for Mr. Greasy Jones. 

“Will watch him all right,” said the note. “Have a job 
here that suits it fine.” 

Mr. Greasy was running no risks of a double-cross! 

And the unassuming miner?—went straight from the 
wharf at Discovery to—Police headquarters. 

Ten days later he met with a stray bullet—a real stray, 
intended for someone else—fired by a member of Greasy’s 
gang in Prospect. A good Samaritan rifled his pockets and 
buried him. 


Chapter III 


Men of all nationalities, and of all professions, honesty of 
purpose their only common bond, made the Superintendent’s 
quarters at Discovery their nightly rendezvous. The Super¬ 
intendent’s great personality drew them. Coming to his 
office for assistance or advice—as they did, in dozens, during 
the day—they were glad to accept his invitation to visit him 
‘off duty.’ 

At eleven o’clock one night a representative gathering of 
this kind held crowded converse round his chair. Lancaster, 
the Lieutenant-Governor, headed the scale. Forshaw, trans¬ 
ferred from Broncho with Hector and still his Adjutant, sat 
on the Lieutenant-Governor’s right. Cranbrook, on a flying 
visit from Nugget, was also present. Inspector Gemmell, 
a good-looking, curly-headed youngster of two or three 
years’ service, maintained discreet silence in the background. 
Medicine was typified by Doctor Quick, Commissioner of 
Public Health for Black Elk Territory. The Rev. Mr. 
Northcote stood very well for Religion and Mr. Steven 
Molyneux for Politics, or Statesmanship. There were also 
in attendance a few nondescripts, good men and true but of 
no particular account. 

The talk, from frivolities, had settled into serious channels. 

“More claim-jumping on Lake Miner, I hear, Major,” 
said the Rev. Mr. Northcote. 

“Yes, I believe there was an attempt at it,” Hector an¬ 
swered. “But the detachment there has handled it satisfac¬ 
torily.” 

“There’s an ugly crowd up there,” asserted Molyneux. 

“There are ugly crowds,” said the Lieutenant-Governor, 
“in all parts of Black Elk Territory. Major Adair sentenced 
forty men today.” 


284 


Coup-de-Grace 285 

“He’ll sentence lots more if this trouble goes on,” sug¬ 
gested the politician. 

“I don’t anticipate it,” Hector answered. 

“You don’t!” Molyneux looked moderately surprised. 
“But—consider it: This claim-jumping at Lake Miner— 
this unrest on the creeks-” 

“Yes,” said one of the nondescripts, a German, “der unrest 
on der creeks! Growls aboud der royalty on der gold ad 
Bioneer Lake! Intimerdation hof der regorder ad Lucky! 
Der meeting of brodest at Nugget! D’reats hof violence on 
Discovery idself! Vat do you make of dat, Major Adair?” 

“Nothing to be alarmed at,” Hector declared. 

“You don’t think it’s—” the Rev. began. 

“The rumblings of a volcano?” Molyneux finished. 

“No, I don’t,” said Hector. 

“Phew! I’m glad to hear it,” said an American nonde¬ 
script. “It looks just a little suspicious. But you ought to 
know.” 

“Yes, I should,” Hector smiled. “And I do.” 

The talk swung to other matters. But the American non¬ 
descript was not really satisfied. Presently he returned to 
the subject. 

“Say, Major—frankly—we’re all friends here, and trust¬ 
worthy—won’t you say—unofficially—what you really think ? 
Surely there is trouble of some sort in the wind?” 

“I’ve told you precisely the truth,” Hector answered 
steadily. “I don’t believe there’s anything to fear. There 
may be trouble—but we can handle it.” 

“You can ?” 

Molyneux, still smiling, asked the question. 

“Absolutely.” 

“You’ve only d’o hundred men here, Major, and dare are 
dousands hof tough nuts in der Territory,” said the German. 

“Never mind.” Hector was very sure of himself. “They’ll 
listen to reason, if handled properly. If they won’t, there 
are plenty of stout-hearted, law-abiding citizens here to help 
us.” 

“Well said, sir!” 

The Rev. most heartily approved. 



286 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Supposing there was trouble, Major,” persisted the poli¬ 
tician, “in confidence—as our friend said, we’re all reliable 
fellows here—just how would you handle it?” 

Again his guests looked intently at the Superintendent. 
But Molyneux searched Hector’s face in vain for the sign 
he sought. 

“I’d appeal to reason first; then, if necessary, to force. In 
employing force, I’d rely exclusively on my own men. I 
wouldn’t use any other weapon except as a last resort.” 

“Being confident,” said the American, “that you could get 
along with your two hundred ?” 

“Being confident—whatever happened,” replied Hector, 
“that I could get along with my two hundred.” 

“The fool!” thought the politician. 

Thinking of Greasy Jones and the plot they were concoct¬ 
ing, he hugged himself inside. 

ii 

One fine midsummer morning there came to the barrack 
gate a boisterous, turbulent crowd. The sentry called out 
the guard. The noise penetrated to Hector’s sanctum—a 
most unwonted noise- 

“Sergeant-Major”—he motioned to Bland, transferred 
from Broncho to Black Elk Territory at Hector’s request— 
“find out the meaning of this disturbance, please.” 

The Sergeant-Major hastened out, visions of riots in his 
head. When he reached the gate, however, he found that 
the crowd had good-humouredly fallen back, leaving the per¬ 
son on whom their attention centred to pass through the line 
of Police undisturbed. 

“Well, what was it?” 

Without looking up from his writing, Hector flung the 
question at the Sergeant-Major as that worthy N. C. O. 
returned. 

Bland thanked Heaven for the Superintendent’s preoccu¬ 
pation. 

“It’s—it’s—” he began. 



Coup-de-Grace 287 

“It’s Constable Oswald,” said an alluring voice, “and he’s 
brought you a prisoner.” 

Hector looked up to see before him: One, the Rev. Mr. 
Northcote, on the broad grin, held captive by two, a buck 
policeman, standing at attention. 

“What does this mean?” 

Hector’s tone was icy. 

He never permitted liberties. It seemed that this was 
one; for Constable Oswald was—a woman, in the complete 
uniform, scarlet coat and all, of a member of the Force! 

“Come along, what’s the meaning of this?” demanded 
Hector again, though the sternness was gone from his voice 
and there was a twinkle in his eye. 

Constable Oswald burst out laughing. Northcote lifted up 
his voice and bellowed. Bland went into a corner and shook. 
After that, Hector could contain himself no longer. The 
office rang with mirth. 

“How dare you come in here like this—and play such 
tricks on me? Northcote, I insist on an explanation,” Hector 
said, as soon as he could get his breath back. 

“Major Adair, I’ll explain,” the lady declared. She was 
still laughing. “The fact of the matter is—I was in a boat— 
coming down the Black Elk this morning—when she upset. 
My valise was lost and—well, the corporal in charge of the 
nearest post came to the rescue and put the wardrobe of the 
post at my disposal. Not wishing to elevate myself too 
highly, I chose a constable’s outfit. Honestly, it was all 
there was! Will you forgive me?” 

“It’s a misuse of the Queen’s uniform, of course, 
Miss-” 

“Oswald-” 

“Miss Oswald—but—well, you plead so nicely and the 
circumstances are extenuating, so we’ll let you off this time. 
And Mr. Northcote must see you properly provided for. 
By the way, were you the cause of the excitement outside?” 

“Yes.” Her eyes beamed laughter. “I think a woman 
constable is a new thing in Discovery.” 

It was. Nothing like it had been seen in the Territory 
before, nor was ever seen again. Miss Oswald’s entrance, 




288 Spirit-of-Iron 

like everything else with which she was connected, was 
original and exclusive. 

“And now—what I really came here for,” she went on, 
quite at home in her strange environment and attire, “was 
to state my business. I’m a woman reporter and I’ve come 
up here for the Montreal Comet to write up the Black Elk 
country.” 

“You’re plucky. This is a dangerous part of the world.” 

“Oh, I love excitement and danger.” This was obviously 
true. “Besides, I-” 

“Excuse me—but—” some far depth in Hector’s memory 
had been sounded—“didn’t you come up to Regina with the 
Press Association in-?” 

“Yes!” cried Nita Oswald delightedly. “I told Mr. North- 
cote you’d remember me—and my bustle!” 

A stout-hearted, unfailing friend, a credit to journalism, 
this energetic woman was to prove herself. 

hi 

That was a busy and momentous day for Hector. The 
door had barely closed on Nita Oswald when he found 
himself in conference with the Lieutenant-Governor. 

“Have you heard anything”—Lancaster was very thought¬ 
ful—“that would lead you to suspect our administration of— 
well, graft, Adair?” 

“Graft, sir ?” 

“Yes, graft—and double dealings—and rottenness-” 

“Nothing definite.” 

“Humph! Well, we’ve got it, just the same. I’ve positive 
evidence, unfortunately, that some of the recorders have been 
accepting bribes. At Pioneer Lake, for instance, the re¬ 
corder falsified his books to show that a certain party had 
staked a.certain claim before it was taken up by another 
man. Some technicality or other bore favourable witness to 
the falsehood. Shortly afterwards, when the rightful owner 
had been ousted, the recorder became suddenly rich. He was 
suspected and—well, anyhow, the whole story is now in my 
hands.” 





C oup-de- Grace 


289 


“Bad business!” 

“Yes. But it doesn’t stop there. I’ve learned of similar 
things at Nugget and on Discovery. At present, I don’t 
know a man in the whole Department whom I can absolutely 
trust.” 

“What do you propose to do?” 

“I can only warn them and watch them. Fire the lot? 
Where could I replace them? And the new set would be 
as bad as the old.” 

“If there’s anything I can do, sir-” 

“You can do a great deal, Adair. Put your men on the 
alert for anything suspicious. Help me—and get them to 
help me—in this fight for clean administration. You can 
do that.” 

“I will, sir.” 

“Good. We’ll clear up the mess by degrees. And we’ll 
make a strong team. Now, I’d like to know, confidentially, 
has anything of the sort come to your notice? Have any 
of your men-?” 

“Been offered bribes, sir?” The Superintendent stiffened. 
“I’ve heard of none. No-one would dare to attempt to bribe 
them! And they wouldn’t take one—not a man of them.” 

“You’ve heard of none, then? But you wouldn’t—if it 
was accepted.” 

“Wouldn’t I ? You don’t know my men, sir, as I do.” 

“Well, if you hear of any such attempt, will you let me 
know ?” 

“Yes, sir. But I won't hear of any such attempt!” 

“How he loves those men, and trusts them!” thought the 
Lieutenant-Governor, not without envy and admiration. 

“I’ll rely on your help?” he said aloud. 

“Absolutely.” 

“Good. That’s all—just now.” 

Hector pondered over Lancaster’s report for several hours. 
Bribery and corruption creeping in—here—there; and he 
sought for a light in the darkness. 

In the afternoon Fate startled him with a piece of news 
directly and unpleasantly bearing on the conversation of the 




290 Spirit-of-Iron 

morning - —Fate assuming the form and personality of Inspec¬ 
tor Gemmell and of Sergeant (ex-Lieut. Col.) Kellett, who 
came into the office to see him. 

A curious pair they made, Kellett and Gemmell—the grey¬ 
headed Sergeant, with his breast of ribbons, taking orders 
from the boy, who might, under other circumstances, have 
passed for his son or the junior subaltern of his regiment. 

“Well?” 

The stern ejaculation jerked Gemmell into action. 

“Fve brought Sergeant Kellett in to report an experience 
he had yesterday, sir,” said the curly-headed Inspector. “I 
thought it better you should hear it, sir, from him direct.” 

“All right, Kellett—your story.” 

“Sir,” said Kellett, “yesterday, when collecting royalties, 
I was offered a bribe.” 

Hector’s mind flashed back to his conversation with Lan¬ 
caster. A bribe! 

“The man was a Swede, Hendrick Olson, working a group 
of claims on Lake Fortune and another on Discovery. He 
handed me a large poke and told me there was more where 
that came from if I would not ask him to pay the royalty, or 
words to that effect.” 

“And you-?” 

The Superintendent looked anxious. 

“I gave it back to him, sir. Then I knocked him down.” 

A little of the severity in the C. O.’s thoughtful face 
relaxed. 

“Go on.” 

“Then I gave him a good round talking to, sir. I told him 
that his was a criminal offense. I tried to make him under¬ 
stand what the Force represents and maintains, sir. Finally, 
I told him that the surest way for him to damn himself in 
our eyes was to play the crooked game. I think he grasped 
it all, sir, in the end.” 

Here was a man with the honour of the Force at heart— 
a man long trained in true esprit de corps —with real knowl¬ 
edge of and sympathy for his chief. Not for nothing had 
Sergeant Kellett commanded his own regiment in his time! 

“Thank you, Kellett. Report any further affairs of this 



Coup-de-Grace 291 

kind that come to your notice, will you? You did the right 
thing, Mr. Gemmell. That will do.” 

The Superintendent shook hands with them both; and in 
that moment there were between them no distinctions of 
rank. They were simply comrades-in-arms, united in their 
jealous love of the corps they served. 

Forshaw came in a few minutes after the others had gone. 
He looked serious when Hector told him what had happened. 

“What do you propose to do, sir?” he enquired. 

“With the men? Nothing,” answered Hector. “Only— 
trust them.” 

Later, when he saw the Lieutenant-Governor again, the 
latter asked him a little banteringly: 

“Aren’t you alarmed—in case your Department should fall 
from its high estate, as the recorders have done?” 

“No, I’m not,” he replied. 

Then, on the same day, came to hand two reports, one 
from Dunsmuir at Hopeful Pass, forwarded through Cran- 
brook, the other from Cranbrook himself, returned to his 
station at Nugget, both bearing much on the situation de¬ 
veloping in the Territory. 

Hector read the first report: 

‘Nugget City, B. E. T., Today’s Date. 
‘Officer Commanding, N. W. M. P., 

‘Black Elk Territory. 

‘Sir : I have the honour to report that at 3 p. m. yesterday 
it was reported that word was being circulated through the 
camps on Upper Nugget for a secret meeting of certain 
miners to be held in O'Brien’s Place, a Nugget City dance- 
hall, before opening time, i. e., 7 p. m., that day. I consid¬ 
ered it better to permit the meeting to be held but to attend 
same myself in order to ascertain what occurred. I there¬ 
fore caused it to be circulated throughout Nugget that I 
would be out of town when the meeting took place. I then 
secured admission to O’Brien’s Place undetected and secreted 
myself. Before the meeting the hall was searched, but I was 
not discovered. Sentries were also posted, but in an unob¬ 
trusive way, nor were the doors or windows locked, the 


292 


Spirit-of-Iron 

object being, in my opinion, to deceive us if we interrupted 
the meeting and cause us to believe that those in attendance 
had nothing to conceal. 

‘At 6.30 p. m. the meeting was declared open. The chair 
was taken by Ginger Yates, whom I have had under sus¬ 
picion for some time but against whom I have been unable 
to obtain evidence. There were also on the platform three 
miners from this district. About seventy-five men occupied 
the auditorium. I could not recognize many of them nor 
was I able to identify those joining in the subsequent dis¬ 
cussion, as my hiding-place did not afford a good view of 
the hall, but the majority must have been men from this 
district. The names of those recognised and in any way 
concerned with the meeting are given in attached appendix. 

‘The meeting was addressed by a man unknown to me. 
He is a newcomer to Nugget and may have come in from 
the outside. 

‘The chairman introduced the stranger as ‘a friend of all 
miners and especially of those who had led the rush into 
the country after the big strike.’ The unknown man then 
spoke for a period of fifteen minutes. I could not record 
his remarks in full but, in general, they were directed against 
the administration of this Territory. The speaker said there 
were far too many people in the country now and, in his 
opinion, the Government should have held at the border all 
those attempting to enter after the first big rush went 
through. (Cheers.) In his opinion, the first comers had 
a right to all the wealth of the country, but that men who 
came in later had struck it rich before them and had been 
permitted by the administration to carry off what really did 
not belong to them under the noses of the old-timers, many 
of whom, like themselves, had been thus compelled to shift 
to poorer fields, there being no room for them along Dis¬ 
covery Creek. He also stated that the laws governing Black 
Elk Territory should be made by the miners, irrespective of 
nationality, and not at Ottawa. (Cheers.) 

‘The speaker then repeatedly cautioned his hearers against 
reading his remarks as an incitation to violence. He did not 
advocate violence. But he thought they should respectfully 


Coup-de-Grace 293 

petition the Government to allow them to make their own 
laws. And one of the first laws should compel all late¬ 
comers to hand over their claims to those who entered Black 
Elk before them. 

‘The speaker then said that the meeting was not secret, 
in the strictest sense, but had been called quietly together so 
that it might not be interrupted by non-sympathizers. The 
same consideration had induced him to select for an audience 
those known by Mr. Yates to hold his own views. It would, 
at the same time, be necessary to organize quietly, lest their 
purpose be misconstrued and their prospects wrecked. 

‘He then sat down, amid applause. 

‘The speaker was evidently a man of some education and 
talent. He spoke excellent English and was apparently not 
of the criminal class. 

‘The chairman calling for the audience to state their 
views, several members rose in support of the speaker’s 
remarks. Two were especially extreme, abusing the Pre¬ 
mier, the Lieutenant-Governor, the Mounted Police and 
yourself, and favouring violence to gain their ends. Yates 
suppressed these remarks. Others, whom I judged to be 
foreigners, insisted in demanding that the privileges of 
British subjects be extended to all resident in the Territory. 
I gathered that the audience was of a low moral character 
and somewhat hostile to the Force. 

‘A resolution was then passed, sympathizing with the 
speaker’s stand and pledging all present to work quietly 
towards awakening the first-comers to ‘a proper apprecia¬ 
tion of their grievances.’ 

‘I am having search made with a view to discovering the 
whereabouts and identity of the man who addressed the 
meeting and am also keeping O’Brien, the proprietor of the 
hall, and Ginger Yates, the chairman, under observation. 

‘I have the honour to be, sir,’ 

And so to Cranbrook’s flourishing signature and a con¬ 
clusion. 

Forshaw watched his chief’s face closely as he perused 
this report, but could read nothing there. 


294 


Spirit-of-Iron 

“What d’you think of it, sir?” he asked. 

“My only wonder, Forshaw,” answered the Superin¬ 
tendent, “is that we’ve not had similar reports before!” 

“Then this one from Corporal Dunsmuir won’t surprise 
you, either.” 

And the little man laid the following before him: 

‘Hopeful Pass Detachment, B. E. T., 

‘Today’s Date. 

‘Officer Commanding, N. W. M. P., 

‘Nugget City. 

‘Sir: I have the honour to report that I discovered con¬ 
cealed in the outfit of a negro giving the name of Rastus 
Lafayette Washington Green, who endeavoured to pass cus¬ 
toms today, these weapons: 6 revolvers, of various makes, 
all modern; 1 Winchester rifle; 2 Snider carbines; also 100 
rounds assorted revolver ammunition. I confiscated same 
and am detaining Green pending instructions from you. 

‘This man has made frequent trips from Prospect to 
Discovery, but no arms have been discovered on him, though 
his outfit, clothing, etc., have always been closely searched. 

‘I have the honour to be, sir,’ 

And so to Dunsmuir’s scrawling signature and a con¬ 
clusion. 

The Lieutenant-Governor’s report, Kellett’s report, Cran- 
brook’s, Dunsmuir’s—and still he searched for light in the 
darkness. 


IV 

Three weeks later the Lieutenant-Governor came again 
to Hector with a long catalogue of crookedness recently 
detected. 

“It’s too bad,” Hector sympathized, when Lancaster had 
finished. “The temptations in this Territory are tremen¬ 
dous.” 

“Yes. But that doesn’t matter. And this fellow Moly- 
neux-” 


“What about him?” asked Hector quickly. 



Coup-de-Grace 295 

“I don’t like his presence here, Adair. He says nothing, 
does nothing. But suppose he carries word of all this back 
to Ottawa before I clean it up. That willl mean ruin— 
to me.” 

“I hope not, sir.” 

“I’m afraid so.” The Lieutenant-Governor passed a hand 
over his tired eyes. “Yet I’m doing my best. I couldn’t 
fight Molyneux, though, on his own ground. And the public 
would suspect me of being personally implicated in this graft. 
They always do suspect the men on top. Yes, it will mean 
my finish.” 

“I think you’d get plenty of support from the men who 
know you.” 

“Perhaps. But could they fight Molyneux’s money ? And 
the man’s been acquiring claims right and left! You know 
that, don’t you?” 

“I know it, yes.” 

“By the way, have your men reported anything further?” 

“Bribery? Yes; several more attempts. I don’t like it, 
sir. It’s unfair to a man to try him with such temptations. 
Even a small bribe looks worth while to a man drawing fifty 
cents a day. But I’m sure the boys will pull through with 
flying colours.” 

“They’ll need to. The feeling along the creeks is rising. 
The miners are very many; the servants of the Government 
very few.” 

When the Lieutenant-Governor was gone, Hector sat 
down to think. He fully grasped the significance of the 
corruption which the Lieutenant-Governor was fighting. 
Molyneux must know of it, since it was known to many of 
the miners. And if Molyneux did not use it as a weapon 
on returning to Ottawa, the miners were almost certain to 
raise a storm about it. The community of Black Elk was 
like a spirited horse, fretting against the curb. Every bribe 
accepted by a Government official, be he only an insignificant 
clerk, was a stroke from the whip. ‘The miners are very 
many; the servants of the Government very few.’ This 
statement showed the fear haunting the Lieutenant-Governor 
—the fear of serious trouble, of indignant protest by the 


296 Spirit-of-Iron 

miners against this maladministration. If trouble came, the 
position of the minority would be very uncomfortable. All 
in all, Lancaster’s anxiety was not surprising. 

The situation being what it was, the necessity of main¬ 
taining the integrity of his own command untarnished was 
greater, if possible, than ever. In view of the temptation, 
and of the delicate situation, perhaps a little encouragement 
from higher up might be a good thing. 

“Vickers/’ he told his clerk, “take this down for circula¬ 
tion to all posts and detachments—to be read by every man 
in the division-” 

Sergeant Kellett, on Discovery Creek, called Constable 
York’s detachment to attention and read them the C. O.’s 
letter : 

‘confidential. 

It has been brought to the notice of the Officer Command¬ 
ing, Black Elk Territory, that members of the Force and 
others have recently been offered bribes. The Officer Com¬ 
manding has yet to learn of a bribe being accepted by any 
member of the Force. 

The Officer Commanding recognizes no circumsances justi¬ 
fying any member of the Force in accepting bribes in any 
shape or form. Recalling the fact from personal experience, 
he knows of no instance since the Force was organized of 
any member either seeking or accepting illegitimate remunera¬ 
tion for his services. 

All ranks of the Force in Black Elk Territorv will remem- 
ber that the reputation of the North-West Mounted Police 
is in their hands/ 

The Sergeant gravely folded the paper and dismissed the 
detachment. Whereupon the detachment—total strength, 
three men—flocked round him and begged to see the letter 
for themselves. 

Followed muttering comment: “‘And others’-—that’s 
tactful, eh?”—“ ‘The O. C. has yet to learn’—there’s a touch 
of brag in that.”—“ ‘The Officer Commanding recognizes 
no’—by Jove, I wish he’d spent the winter with me in Hopeful 
Pass!”—“You fool, he went through worse before you were 



Coup-de-Grace 297 

born!”—“ ‘Recalling the fact from personal experience’— 
that’s right! The Old Man came out with the Originals!”— 
“ ‘All ranks will remember that the reputation—.’ Good old 
‘Spirit-of-Iron’!” 

“Yes,” said Sergeant Kellett, forcibly annexing the letter, 
“it’s in their hands! And, before the Lord, you, York, or 
any man Jack of you, if you forget it, I’ll take down my 
stripes and lick the stuffing out of you!” 

“Thanks!” the red-readed York flashed back hotly. 
“Think Yd go back on the Chief? You just hint that I’d 
forget it, Sergeant Kellett, an’ I’ll knock your block off, 
stripes an’ all!” 

“Right-o!” replied the Sergeant, grown strangely husky. 
“Keep your hair on, carrots! We’ll let that sentiment stand 
for the whole Force, if you please.” 

And stand for the Force it did. 

v 

Miss Nita Oswald, when she first came to the North, had 
ignored Prospect as a field for ‘copy.’ Discovery City lured 
her. But closer acquaintance had shown her that Black Elk 
Territory was almost too law-abiding to be picturesque. 
Her Editors were clamouring for ‘thrills’ and ‘ginger.’ Her 
friends advised her to seek them in Prospect. Mr. North- 
cote thought that Prospect was no place for a lady. But 
Miss Oswald’s thirst for sensation ruled her and she insisted 
on seeing the place for herself. 

“Very well,” said the Human Parson, “if you will go, I’ll 
go with you.” 

“Chaperone?” Miss Oswald had queried, with a touch of 
assumed anger. “Think I need one?” 

“Chaperone? No! Protector? Yes! Though you mightn’t 
think it, I’m an artist with a six-shooter; and not a bad fist 
at boxing.” 

“Come on, then! There’s no need to ask you to leave your 
odour of sanctity behind—you’ve never had it!” 

So they went down into Prospect; and, in due course, 
sallied out on knowledge bent. 


298 


Spirit-of-Iron 

The streets were a blaze of light. Crowds gathered 
thickly, like blundering, deluded moths, round the glaring 
entrances of the bigger dance-halls, cafes, saloons, gambling 
houses, dope dens and theatres. On platforms outside the 
theatres bands blared murderously and leathern-throated men, 
standing before posters of scarlet-cheeked women in all 
stages of dress and undress, bellowed lurid descriptions of 
the delights they had to offer. From the dance-halls came 
crashes of music, shouts and shrieks; shouts, jingling of 
glasses and pistol shots from the saloons. No-one minded 
them. No-one minded anything—except their own business. 
When drunken men were flung out of the saloons, when 
obstreperous plungers, their last dollar gone, were pitched 
bodily from the gambling houses, no-one raised them from 
the ground where they lay. Greasy Jones’ gang worked openly 
through the crowd. The men in the ticket-offices sat with 
revolvers ready to hand. Broken men, shuddering from the 
effects of cocaine or opium, wandered aimlessly about the 
dope dens. Innumerable painted ladies cried their wares. 
There was no peace, no truth, no beauty in Prospect. It was 
a ghastly hunting-ground of Vice and Death. 

The Rev. Mr. Northcote and his companion saw it all. 

Towards two a. m., seeking a climax, they visited a theatre, 
the lowest they could find. Miss Oswald was determined to 
see it. There were boxes at the sides, benches in the audi¬ 
torium. The air was grey with smoke, the floor a mass of 
filth. The packed audience, as Nita Oswald afterwards told 
the readers of the Comet, ‘would have made the combined 
resources of ancient Newgate and modern Sing-Sing look 
like a Band of Hope meeting/ There was a real stage, with 
real scenery. A cavern below the footlights accommodated 
the orchestra, consisting of a jangling piano and two asth¬ 
matic violins. The artists were of two varieties—the has- 
beens and the never-will-bes. The former depended on 
charity and their past reputations, the latter on their youth, 
their looks and their self-confidence, which was unfathom¬ 
able. There was a bar in one corner, marvellously patronized. 
Between the acts, the younger actresses, in their airy cos¬ 
tumes, ran up to the boxes and beguiled the occupants on 



Coup-de-Grace 299 

commission into buying cigars at one hundred dollars a box 
and drinks at ten dollars per. Greasy Jones and his cronies 
occupied a box and were closely surrounded by bevies of 
beauty; but he paid for nothing, the proprietor being en¬ 
tirely dependent on his patronage. 

As soon as Miss Oswald and the parson were seated, 
a man in an old dress suit appeared on the stage and an¬ 
nounced that one of the actors would deliver an address. 

This was a surprise to the audience, ‘addresses’ being 
unusual. But it proved even more of a surprise to the Rev. 
Mr. Northcote and the woman reporter. 

The actor, who had previously given a ‘black-face’ turn, 
came on in costume, with his cork still on. And he began 
to speak. He had been drinking. 

“Ladies an’ Gennelmun: The lady that pre-ceded me sang 
you a song, the composhision of one of our bri’est local poets, 
directin’ upon that famous force o’ sanctimonious red-coats 
clevuhly referred to as ‘the yallah-legs,’ the well-deserved 
arrars of wit an’ ridicule. Ladies an’ Gennelmun, I agree 
with her (Cheers). You agree with her (Cheers). An’ I 
wanna tell you folks what I think should be done to ’em. 

“Ladies an’ Gennelmun—fellow-citenens—them fellers 
have kept you an’ me out o’ Black Elk Terr’ty. Yes, suh, 
kep’ us out’ Black Elk Terr’ty. Is tha’ right! Is tha’ just? 
(Thunderous cries of ‘No!’) Cer’nly not! We’re en-titled 
to get in on that gol’ up there. An’ I say we ought ge’ in 
(Cheers). 

“Now, why are’nt we in there? Eh? ’Cause them yallah- 
legs keep us out. An’ why do they keep us out? ’Cause 
in’str’ns from—from the citenens o’ Black Elk? No! From 
the autocrats that govern Canada (Prolonged booing). 

“Now, I advocate that the laws oughta be changed. Yes! 
Who should gov’n Black Elk Terr’ty? Why, the citenens! 
If they gov’ned Black Elk, you’d find we’d be there! Yes, 
suh (Cheers). 

“Now, I wan’ all you peepul, Ladies an’ Gennelmun, to 
work for tha’ change. Mos’ of us here tonight, ’ll stay here— 
’cause o’ the yallah-legs. But you can work for tha’ change 
jus’ the same! An’ those on their way in, they can work 


300 


Spirit-of-Iron 

for’t, too. An’ you can help fix the yallah-legs.” Here fol¬ 
lowed two minutes of scathing and heartily applauded abuse 
of the Mounted Police. The speaker worked himself up to a 
high pitch of excitement. Then, “I tell you, Ladies an’ 
Gennelmun, I’d like to see a new flag over Black Elk! Yes, 
I would! Any flag—but the Stars an’ Stripes preferred! 
(Terrific applause from one section of the audience.) I 
want a change. An’ I tell you, suh, confidenshully, there’s 

goin’— r 

Over the hall rang out a man’s voice, commanding, ter¬ 
rible : 

“Stop r 

All eyes turned to Greasy Jones’ box. The actor hesi¬ 
tated in bewildered fashion, then, evidently deciding that 
the interruption was not seriously meant, went on: 

“I tell you, there’s going to be a change. We’ll dash the 
yallah-legs-” 

“Stop!” 

“Heavens! I’m glad we came in,” whispered Nita Os¬ 
wald. “This is going to be exciting. Is the terrible Greasy 
Jones a British patriot, after all?” 

“He’s no patriot,” the clergyman whispered back. “Keep 
still.” 

Again the actor looked up at the box. Greasy Jones, his 
ladies having fallen back, was clearly visible, his fierce eyes 
fixed on the wretched speaker. 

“Isn’t tha’ what you-?” whispered the actor. 

The answer was a pistol-shot, smashing the hush. Greasy 
Jones, his face livid with rage, had fired. The actor pitched 
upon his face, dead. 

“Keep your seats, everyone!” ordered Greasy, peering with 
his hawk face over the audience. “Manager, take that man 
away. And get on with the show!” 

The audience was stunned into obedience. The manager 
followed the gangster’s instructions without a word. A 
raucous-voiced actress tripped onto the stage, where the 
murdered man’s blood had left a stain, and relieved the ten¬ 
sion with a song and dance. In five minutes the tragedy was 





Coup-de-Grace 301 

forgotten, the crowd was laughing uproariously and Greasy 
Jones was toying with his girls. 

Northcote’s first thought was for Nita. 

“Are you all right ?” he asked. 

But the plucky reporter’s nerve, stout as it was, had been 
unable to stand this shock. 

“For God’s sake, let’s get out of here!” she whispered. 
“This is terrible!” 

Outside, recovered, she asked Northcote what he thought 
of the occurrence. 

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But, rest assurred, I’ll 
see that Adair hears about that speech and Jones’ extraor¬ 
dinary behaviour!” 

Next day they returned to Discovery. 


Chapter IV 


i 

Dr. Quick, Chairman and Commissioner of the Board of 
Health for Black Elk Territory, was a man with a wonderful 
sense of humour. Though plump and "rosy, he did not look 
a jester. His face was always solemn and his twinkling grey 
eyes were so hidden by his huge round glasses that nothing 
could be read in them. Taking advantage of these facts, the 
doctor made his life one round of fun. He was one of the 
busiest men in Discovery City, working night and day and 
carrying almost all the burden of his department on his own 
shoulders; but he still found time for tricks and jokes. The 
doctor was an inexplicible enigma to those who did not know 
him. To his friends he was a perpetual delight and one of 
the cleverest practitioners in North America. 

The doctor, being a shrewd man, knew the real thing when 
he saw it; hence his deep friendship for the Superintendent 
commanding at Discovery. 

One night not long after the Rev. Mr. Northcote’s return 
from Prospect, the doctor lingered on in Hector's quarters 
till the last of the guests had gone. Then he suddenly said, 
in his slow, solemn way: 

“Adair, I’d a queer experience today—a joke. Last win¬ 
ter, at Nugget there was a fine big Yankee there, dying of 
pneumonia. Very far gone. I treated him. ‘Doctor/ he 
says, ‘if you’re going to save me you’ll have to be quick.’ 
‘Quick?’ said I. I’m always Quick!’ ” (The doctor’s favour¬ 
ite pun.) “Well, he pulled through. He was grateful, the 
poor cuss. Early this evening, Adair, I saw that man again.” 

/‘Is that so?” 

Hector wondered what was coming. 

“Yes. I went into the Cash-In —no, not for a drink; to 
see a fellow lying upstairs with a broken leg, a man who 

302 


Coup-de-Grace 303 

can’t be moved. Afterwards, on my way downstairs, a fear¬ 
ful specimen of human microbe held me up, asked for my 
money or my life. I’ve lots of money but only one life. 
Besides, he had a gun. So I obliged. One of the first hold¬ 
ups we’ve had in Discovery.” 

“Can you describe the man?” 

“Yes. But I don’t want him jailed. He’s had his punish¬ 
ment. That’s the joke. After the gentleman held me up, I 
returned to the office. When I got there, who should I see 
but my Yankee friend? Struck it rich this summer and is on 
his way home. Came in to make me a present of a beautiful 
nugget, in gratitude. We opened a convivial bottle and I 
told him my experience. ‘Could you point the man out?’ he 
asked. ‘Come on, then. I’ll get your money back.’ ‘I don’t 
want the money,’ I said. ‘And he’s armed.’ ‘Never mind. I 
want to get your roll for you. Don’t worry. I was champion 
boxer at Yale.’ So, to humour him, and expecting a little 
fun, I took him to the Cash-In, a good starting-point for our 
search. The human microbe was in the bar. Our Yankee 
friend called him outside—said he wanted to tell him a se¬ 
cret. Secret! Wow!” The doctor chuckled. “He got the 
human microbe’s gun and then pounded him to a jelly. 
When the massacre was ended, the microbe handed over the 
roll and departed like a lamb. Strange, eh?” 

“Very. But,” Hector insisted, “we must take the man.” 

“Aw, Adair, he’s had enough.” 

“No, he hasn’t. Describe him, will you?” 

The doctor looked reproachful. 

“Adair, if I thought you’d do this I wouldn’t have told you 
the story. But the King must be obeyed. He was a huge, 
broad-shouldered creature, with a beard and, strange to say, 
he had no nose. Why, do you know the gentleman?” 

“Do I? That’s No-nose Joe, one of Greasy Jones’ men, 
I’m certain. Grown a beard, eh ? I must see to this.” 

After a word with Forshaw, Sergeant Savage, at that 
moment patrolling the streets of Discovery, was sent for. 
The bulldog Sergeant appearing, he was given a description 
of the man and told to look for him at the Cash-In. 

“And be quick!” said Hector. 


304 Spirit-of-Iron 

“You may be quick, but you won’t be Quick as I’d be,” 
said the doctor. 

“Don’t worry, sir, I’ll take him myself.” 

This to the doctor, whose joke had gone completely over 
the Sergeant’s head. 

For three-quarters of an hour, Hector and the doctor 
I 1 awaited the Sergeant’s return at the office. At two a. m. 
j precisely, enter a tableau: 

Two solemn constables, one on each side of a battered 
wreck in hand-cuffs, like supporters to a battered shield; the 
wreck, clothes torn, face blue; Sergeant Savage, the bulldog, 
both eyes blackened, nose swollen, tunic torn up the back and 
spattered with gore. The Sergeant at his full height did not 
reach to the sagging shoulder of the wreck. 

“Well ?” said Hector. 

The doctor’s eyes twinkled but the Superintendent’s were 
very stern. 

The Sergeant saluted with a whisk and a clash of spurred 
heels. 

“Sir-” said the Sergeant, “I proceeded direct to the 

Cash-In saloon; left the patrol outside; spotted the prisoner 
in a corner, drinking; arrested him. He drew a gun and 
pointed it at me, contrary to sections 105 and 109 of the 
Criminal Code. We struggled. Finally, I got the hand¬ 
cuffs on him and handed him over to the patrol. I regret to 
have to report, sir, that the following damage was done to 
Government and private property-” 

Here the bulldog produced his notebook and read: 

“ ‘Tunic torn and blood-stained; three chairs smashed; 

twenty glasses smashed-’ that was when we hit the bar, 

sir—‘table smashed; wall bloodstained; panel of door 
smashed.’ That’s all, sir.” 

And the Sergeant closed his notebook and saluted with 
the utmost gravity. 

“Well, it’s the microbe, all right,” said the doctor. 

“Yes, and it’s No-nose Joe!” said Hector. 

Of himself he asked, “Now, how did he get through the 
pass? And what is he doing here?” 





305 


Coup-de-Grace 

ii 

The secret service agents of the Police in Black Elk Ter¬ 
ritory were known only to one man—the Superintendent in 
command; and the reports they handed in he kept to him¬ 
self. They came to him for orders, in the middle of the 
night, unseen by any other living soul. Of their chief’s 
plans, they knew nothing. Each worked independently, with¬ 
out coming into contact with the rest. 

One of the most trusted of Hector’s agents was Perkins, 
the gambler of Regina and Qu’appelle, yet a different Per¬ 
kins, reformed when Hector, returning from Arcady, had 
told him of his mother’s death and shown him whither he 
was drifting. Perkins now devoted his knowledge of crime 
to the cause of Justice and was hardier, stronger, cleaner, 
altogether a better man. 

A hint of wintry frost was in the air when Perkins came 
in one night from Prospect to report. 

“Well, Perkins-” this from Hector—“have you watched 

Greasy Jones?” 

“Sure have, sir. First thing, I got a job at the Joyland, 
a Prospect dance-hall. Greasy visits that place pretty fre¬ 
quent. An’ I’ve got thick with him, sir. I always waits on 
him. He thinks I’m scart o’ him, so he sen’s for me— 
enjoys seein’ me sweat fear, I guess.” 

“Good. And?” 

“Well, sir, he’s been following the usual line o’ battle, 
murder an’ sudden death. ’T’other night, sir, he an’ his 
pardners was havin’ a drink in a private room. Greasy had 
a drop on board. He was layin’ on hot about the Police, 
’cause he said you’d arrested an’ put in jug one o’ his main 
pushes—No-nose Joe.” 

“That’s true. He didn’t like the idea ?” 

“He didn’t, sir. ’Pears he’s scart Joe will let out some 
plan or other Greasy’s got in his head.” 

“I see. Well, Perkins, No-nose hasn’t had a word to say. 
I’ve tried everything, bar torture, and he won’t open his 
mouth. I want to learn how he got through the pass and 



306 Spirit-of-Iron 

what he’s doing here and in disguise—he’s grown a beard, 
you know. But he won’t talk.” 

“Would you like me to try an’ find out from Greasy, 
sir ?” 

“Yes, if you can. But I don’t want you shot. Last spring 
one of my best men was shot dead by Greasy’s gang a few 
days after reporting here to me. It may have been accidental. 
Yet he hadn’t learned much. He gave me useful informa¬ 
tion about Greasy but I doubt if it was worth his life.” 

“I’ll be all right, sir. I’ll be thick as thieves with Greasy 
soon. There’s another thing you oughta know, sir. There’s 
a lot o’ feelin’ runnin’ against the Force. Shouldn’t be 
surprised if they tries to rush the pass, or somethin’. It’s 
not safe for even six policemen to be seen on the streets 
in Prospect now, sir—take it from me.” 

“I know that, Perkins. Any more meetings?” 

“No, sir, but the guys at the theatres spout long speals, 
all sayin’ there oughta be a change in Black Elk Territory 
an’ the yallah-legs should be swept away.” 

“They haven’t counseled violence or said anything more 
about a change actually at hand ?” 

“Not since Greasy shot that actor ’bout three weeks ago, 
sir. Strange thing, that!” 

“Very. Well, keep your eyes and ears open, Perkins. 
And stick to Greasy—tight. I may tell you, things are look¬ 
ing very serious here. We’ve had meetings demanding the 
Lieutenant-Governor’s resignation and a clean sweep of 
everyone in power. They haven’t threatened—but the Terri¬ 
tory is rising to a turmoil. The other day, though, a miners’ 
meeting at Nugget advised lynching the recorder. Mr. 
Cranbrook talked them into reason—a fine piece of diplo¬ 
macy; but it all points to unrest. You report similar 
troubles from Prospect. Then again, I learn, recently, of 
several attempts to smuggle in large quantities of arms— 
started with a big nigger in the late summer—I’m speaking 
confidentially—and has continued intermittently ever since. 
It may mean nothing—or a great deal. Now, do all these 
things connect? And is Greasy in the game? That’s what 
you must find out, Perkins.” 


307 


Coup-de-Grace 

“I'll stick to Greasy day an’ night, sir.” 

“Good. And keep me posted. Mum’s the word.” 
“Yes, sir. Good night.” 


hi 

Hopeful Pass lay gripped in the first big cold of the 
northern winter. Every lake, creek and river in Black 
Elk was frozen over. The miners had deserted their claims 
for town or retired into their shacks till spring. Travel¬ 
lers in the pass might be counted on one hand. The human 
tide, like the watery tide, had succumbed to the wintry clutch. 

And yet the Mounted Police post was as active as in the 
days of the rush. Half the men were tramping up and down 
in the snow. Outside their big fur coats they wore their 
bandoliers, belts and revolvers, and each man carried his 
carbine, while young Inspector Gemmell, similarly equipped, 
was sitting on an open box of ammunition. 

They were going to fight? They were—if necessary. 

Gemmell, who had relieved Cranbrook at Nugget a short 
time before, had been advised by headquarters that an 
attempt might soon be made by the thugs of Prospect to 
rush the post on Hopeful Pass and gain admittance to the 
gold-fields. He was to avert this attempt by ‘taking such 
steps as he deemed advisable’—(Let the boy run his own 
show!) and Gemmell, who included Hopeful Pass in his 
jurisdiction, had instantly taken long steps—in Hopeful Pass 
direction, since it was better that he should be on the scene 
of action himself. 

To resist the advance, Gemmell had erected a barrier cov¬ 
ering the approach to the post and had maintained a per¬ 
petual look-out in the pass a mile or two ahead. This look¬ 
out was on duty now. 

From Prospect that morning had come word of an ad¬ 
vance. Gemmell had thereupon turned out half his men, 
leaving the rest in comfort in the tent. Gemmell had also a 
Maxim in the tent but, as it was water-cooled, it was liable 
to freeze up if left for too long in the open. 


308 


Spirit-of-Iron 

If the thugs came up, Gemmell planned to emulate the 
Spartans of Thermopylae. 

The pass must be held to the last. 

He meant to hold it. 

Meanwhile, he wished the thugs would ‘get it over/ as he 
was sure his nose was freezing. 

Gemmell’s scouts suddenly appeared over the skyline a 
hundred yards away. 

“Gang of two hundred, heavily armed, just come into 
sight, sir/’ the scouts reported on arrival. 

“All right,” said Gemmell. Then, to the men in the tent, 
“Turn out, you fellows!” 

The fellows turned out. Gemmell mounted the Maxim 
in a conspicuous position, pointing down the pass. He sta¬ 
tioned his reserve behind the barrier. The remainder of the 
men, six all told, he drew up in a line, across the pass. 

Then, in a mist of descending flakes, they waited. 

“If you’ll pardon me, sir,”—Sergeant Kellett tactfully 
placed his superior knowledge and experience at his C. O.’s 
disposal—“I’d parley with them first.” 

“Yes, Sergeant,” said Gemmell. 

He wished his moustache was bigger. 

An hour passed. 

“Are you sure they’re coming ?” Gemmell asked the scouts. 

A sudden roar, borne on the wind, supplied the answer and 
a crowd of men surged over the crest below. 

All alone, Gemmell advanced to meet the crowd on the 
boundary-line, a stone’s throw in front. 

Two hundred?—a low estimate. There were at least 
three hundred in the crowd—ruffians all, and well armed, the 
dregs of Prospect, the toughest town on earth. Gemmell 
looked for Greasy Jones or his gang but saw none of them. 

The crowd yelled with mingled passion and triumph when 
it saw Gemmell. He slung his carbine easily over his shoul¬ 
der and unbuttoned the holster of his revolver. On the 
boundary-line he met the mob, face to face. 

“Out o’ the way!” roared the crowd—and halted. 

“Sorry, but this is the boundary,” replied Gemmell coolly. 


Coup-de - Grace 309 

He was forced to raise his voice. “Behind me is Canadian 
territory. You can't pass!" 

These remarks produced a storm of hoots, laughs and jeers. 
The crowd began to advance again, intending to sweep 
Gemmell aside. 

On the very edge of Canadian territory the crowd halted 
again, checked by their leader, a desperate-looking villain, 
who waved significantly toward the line of Police. 

“Well, what you got to say?" 

Turning, when the mob had halted and had fallen into 
silence, the leader challenged Gemmell. 

“My orders," shouted Gemmell, in return, “are to halt you 
at the boundary. I have a big force of men, and a Maxim 
gun, that could clean up this pass in half a minute. Now, I 
don’t want trouble. I want you fellows to have some sense 
and go home." 

The leader of the mob placed himself in front of Gemmell, 
feet wide apart, hands on hips, and looked him up and down. 
“Say, kid," he demanded, “who th’ hell d’you think you are? 
Who told you to stop us law-abidin’ citizens ?" 

“Her Majesty the Queen!" said Gemmell. 

“Whoop!" shouted the man; and the crowd jeered. 

“What th’ hell right has Her Majesty got in Black Elk, 
anyhow ?" went on the leader. “The Black Elk miners is the 
boys to run that country. An’ they want us in. An’ we’re 
goin in! See ?" 

He thrust his lowering face to within an inch of the 
Inspector’s. 

“Get your men an’ your pop-gun out o’ th’ way!" the 
thug continued. “An’ no one’ll be hurt! Out o’ th’ way, 


And he put out his hand to thrust Gemmell aside. 

“Hard words!" smiled the Inspector. 

Then he flicked the man across the mouth. 

A shriek of anger rose from the crowd. The leader, his 
face crimson, whipped out a revolver and pointed it at 
Gemmell. 

“Out o’ th’ way!" he roared. 

“We’re on Canadian soil. You’ve broken the law!" 



310 Spirit-of-Iron 

With that, the Inspector dashed the thug’s weapon aside 
and closed with him. 

Sergeant Kellett, waiting with the line behind, saw the 
youngster struggling furiously, in a turmoil of snow, and 
the mob closing. Instantly, he doubled his men forward. 
A row of levelled carbines came suddenly to Gemmell’s 
rescue. 

“Stand back, you!” ordered Kellett hotly. “Or I’ll open 
fire!” A roaring mass, the toughs swayed to and fro before 
that slender barrier. Between them, as on common ground, 
Gemmell and his antagonist rolled and struggled. 

Sergeant Kellett whipped out his handcuffs, watching his 
chance to plunge into the fight. 

But out of the scurry of snow came Gemmell, at that in¬ 
stant—smiling and on top! His face was lacerated, the 
tough kicking and clawing like a mad dog. Gemmell had 
pitched the revolver out of reach in the first struggle. 

“Leave him, Sergeant!” he implored. “He’s my meat!” 

Then—click!—pulling a pair of hand-cuffs from his own 
pocket—the arrest was a fact accomplished. 

To get back with their prisoner to the post was the work 
of a moment. The crowd, now lacking determined leader¬ 
ship, wavered. The arrest left them dazed. 

“All ready?” 

The machine-gun crew and the men at the barrier nodded. 

The Inspector hailed the crowd. 

“Get out!” he shouted. “Do you hear? The first man 
moving this w r ay will mean the end of the lot of you! Re¬ 
member my Maxim!” 

Then both sides waited, facing each other, in intense 
silence. 

This was the crisis. Which was it to be—a fight or a 
retreat ? 

“Don’t fire, sir, till they’re right on us!” whispered Kel¬ 
lett. “Never do, sir, never do!” 

The mob gathered itself together, yelling. The Police 
maintained their ominous silence. Motionless, they faced 
the mob—twelve men against three hundred. The flag 
above them blew out gloriously in the breeze. 


311 


Coup-de- Grace 

Suddenly the toughs charged. 

Gemmell’s face was marble, under dried streaks of blood. 
This, surely, was the end. Bullets whistled round them, the 
crowd opening fire as it advanced. 

‘‘Machine-gun, ready there!” 

“Ready!” 

The mob had forgotten the machine-gun. Every man 
heard that firm cry, “Machine-gun, ready there!” and the 
answer, “Ready!” Now they remembered. Quick as light¬ 
ning, a mental picture flashed through them ... a picture 
of the pass, blocked with their bodies, dominated by a devil 
of brass and steel. 

And the rush—melted away. Melted away! 

The Police were left with their prisoner. The crowd went 
sullenly pouring back to Prospect in defeat. 

Gemmell drew a deep breath. The tense line relaxed. 

It was hard to believe the mob had given way, not on 
account of the carbines but simply and solely on account 
of the mere threat of the Maxim. 

For the Maxim had been frozen up for the past twenty 
minutes. 

“Bluffed 'em, by the Lord Harry!” said Gemmell. 

IV 

Greasy Jones and Mr. Steven Molyneux, M. P., sat oppo¬ 
site each other in the little room wherein they had held their 
first conversation, months before. 

On the stairs outside, Greasy Jones’ spy, whom Northcote 
knew as Charlie, kept watch. Charlie had fulfilled his duty 
faithfully. Greasy was well aware that Welland had not 
‘squealed.’ 

“Look here,” said Welland forcibly. “What are you kick¬ 
ing at ? Haven’t you been paid regularly ? Isn’t everything 
O. K.?” 

The gangster started moodily at the candle flame. 

“Don’t misunderstand me, Molyneux,” he said. “I ain’t 
kickin’. But I do think things ain’t goin’ as good as they 
oughta have gone.” 


312 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Welland impatiently. “What’s 
the matter with them ? Isn’t Black Elk in a turmoil ? Aren’t 
the miners demanding the resignation of the Lieutenant- 
Governor and half the administration? Hasn’t a petition as 
long as Hopeful Pass gone round calling for the transference 
of governing powers to the miners? Haven’t we got more 
than enough arms in the country to overthrow the Police? 
Isn’t every man in Black Elk ready to follow you as soon 
as you appear? Haven’t you slipped in half your gang? 
And your talkers? Aren’t the Police asleep? What more 
do you want?” 

“Just listen to me a minute. When we first thought o’ 
this thing, the idea was we was to make the first-comers sore 
about the others who came in later an’ struck it rich first. 
Wasn’t that so?” 

“Yes,” said Welland. 

“Well, now we’ve got the whole country stirred up, not 
only the first-comers. An’ that’s dangerous. I mean, the 
yallah-legs is all the more liable to get on to what we’re 
really tryin’ to do.” 

“Now, don’t be a fool, Greasy. The idea certainly was 
to stir up the first-comers; and we’ve done it, too. But I 
promised to help from my side. Well, I have. I got men 
all through the country to bribe the recorders and different 
government officials until the whole thing’s just rotten with 
corruption. I got ’em to try to bribe the Police, too, but no 
luck so far. Never mind; the Territory’s rotten. And the 
result? Why, everyone but the old prospectors and a few 
fools is on our side, instead of just the first-comers!” 

“Where do the first-comers get in, then?” 

“Why, I’ll show you,” said Welland. “We keep what we 
intend to do after the turn-over quiet. The Police think the 
whole country’s against ’em. Then, when that’s over, the 
first-comers and us—that is, you and your gang—we tell the 
rest, ‘We’re running this show now!’ See? Then we put 
them in their places—quick!” 

“That’s what you once said me an’ my gang ’ud do to the 
first-comers,” said Greasy. “We was to get them stirred up 


Coup-de-Grace 313 

only. Then we was to throw them down only. Now what 
do we do with ’em ? Are they to be thrown down, too ?” 

Why, yes! ’ exclaimed Welland. “They throw the others 
down. Then we throw them down. Is that clear?” 

A hell of a lot o’ throwin’ down!” muttered the molli¬ 
fied gangster. “But I guess I see. Has all that been kept hid¬ 
den, though?” 

“Certainly! None but your gang and a few men in with 
us know that we’re going to smash the Government by force, 
if force is necessary. We’ve been preaching peace the whole 
time. Nor do they know that we’re going to throw down 
the others when we’re ready. See?” 

“I guess I see,” said Greasy again. “’Stead o’ just a small 
crowd to scare the yallah-legs, we get everyone. And after¬ 
wards we gets our fling. That right ?” 

“Got it!” 

“You’re even slicker than I thought,” the gangster re¬ 
marked admiringly. “Say, I don’t like the way the yallah- 
legs got No-nose. Suppose he squeals ?” 

“I know for a fact he hasn’t squealed.” 

“You do?” asked the gangster quickly. 

“Yes. He daren’t. He knows what’s coming. And he 
knows you’d kill him if you got at him and the scheme 
failed.” 

“That’s so. Well, about these here arms. The yallah- 
legs has got most o’ ’em. Don’t they suspect nothin’ ?” 

“Nobody knows what you’re sending them through for, 
do they ? Nor who’s sending them ? Nor where they go to ?’ 4 

“No. They don’t even know it’s me sendin’ ’em. They’re 
told to leave ’em at a certain place in Nugget. Then O’Brien 
calls an’ gets ’em an’ stows ’em away. An’ they stays stowed 
till wanted. An’ O’Brien daren’t squeal, ’cause I got him 
watched. An’ he knows it.” 

“Well, what are you afraid of?” 

“Just that the yallah-legs has smelt trouble.” 

“They haven’t. And, anyway, they’d never connect these 
arms with you or with any big plan.” 

Greasy was satisfied—till he raised another point. 

“I ain’t got half my men I wants through the pass; not 


314 Spirit-of-Iron 

more’n twenty. An’ it’s gettin’ harder all the time to get 
’em through. An’ we tried to rush the pass—that is, some 
o’ the boys did, an’ ’bout thirty o’ my men behind, so’s the 
yallah-legs wouldn’t see ’em. An’ what happened? Why 
that li’l squirt of an officer an’ his twelve men wouldn’t let 
’em through—kep’ ’em off with a bloody Maxim!” 

Welland felt tempted to tell the gangster that the crowd 
had been bluffed. But he refrained. 

“Why did you try it?” he demanded. 

“Well, you remember you said we could try it if we 
weren’t gettin’ men through quick enough.” 

“Pah! None of the crowd had the guts to make a real 
charge.” 

“At a Maxim? They ain’t crazy.” 

The gangster spat scornfully on the floor. 

“Oh, never mind. We’ll smuggle a few more through be¬ 
fore we shoot.” 

The gangster grunted. 

“Are you sure the yallah-legs is asleep?” he asked. 

“Certain. But I’ll find out again before you slip across the 
line. Anything else ?” 

“You bet!” Greasy sat up and looked fiercely at his com¬ 
panion. “How do I know you won’t double-cross me yet? 
You—a Canadian M. P. ?” 

“My dear Greasy,” said Welland, with an air of infinite 
patience. “Suppose I did ? Couldn’t you give away my part 
of the show—and ruin me?” 

“I s’pose so,” the gangster admitted. “But I ain’t let on 
about it to anyone.” 

“Why not?” the politician enquired derisively. 

“An’ have you get to know it? Then you’d squeal on me 
sure!” 

“That’s right. So we understand each other!” Welland 
smiled. 

This delightful pair most certainly possessed an amazing 
mutual understanding! 

Followed a pause, while they lit cigars. 

“Like to know what I’ve done?” the gangster asked. 
“Well, I’ve got all the Prospect toughs behind me—ready to 


Coup-de-G?'dce 315 

rush in as soon as we let ’em from inside. My men are just 
hintin’ to ’em quiet that the li’l old U. S. is goin’ to back us 
later. Also, the same thing among the guys in Black Elk. 
That’s bolsterin’ ’em up. An’ later, we’ll tell it that it’s so, 
for sure.” Welland nodded. “Then—look here!” 

From a corner the gangster produced a large bag. Empty¬ 
ing it, he revealed notepaper, stamps, rubber stamps, and a 
flag. He spread the smaller articles out on the table and held 
up the flag by the corners. 

“Look!” he repeated. 

Welland, eyebrows raised, complied. 

The paper bore the device of a black elk’s head, with the 
slogan, ‘Liberty or Death’ above it, below it the words, ‘The 
Black Elk Republic,’ and at one side, ‘F. D. Jones, Presi¬ 
dent.’ The rubber stamps bore similar legends, with such 
captions as ‘Board of Health’ and ‘Department of Justice/ 
The stamps were white, with the black elk’s head and motto. 
The flag was also white, with the same device and the initials, 

‘B. e. r: 

“Splendid !” said Welland. “Splendid!” 

He seemed struck with the assurance and determination 
which had caused these things to be prepared. 

“Notice I’m president?” Greasy grinned. 

“You bet! Why, this is fine! Real revolution—and no 
mistake about it!” 

“Sure thing! Pretty fine, eh?” 

“I—er—hope you were careful in having these things 
made, though,” said Welland slowly, as an afterthought. 

“Careful!” Greasy was scornful. “The flag was made by 
my woman. She’s under my heel! She’s made six. Every¬ 
thing else was made by men that I’ve got where I want, don’t 
worry.” 

The gangster stowed his treasures away. 

“When do you think we’d better spring it?” he enquired. 

“Soon as the country’s thoroughly tied up,” said Welland. 
“Less than a month now, I guess—first heavy snow. Eh?” 

The gangster nodded. 

“You’ll send me word?” 

“Either that or come down and see you. It’s getting hard 


316 Spirit-of-Iron 

for me to get away now. But trust me. Now, is there any¬ 
thing else ?” 

Greasy pondered. 

“Oh, I was forgettin’ to tell you I been tappin’ the tele¬ 
graph lines from Discovery to Prospect for the past week. 
An’ I’ll keep it up till we’re ready.” 

“Why, you’re a genius!” Welland cried. “I never thought 
of that. Anything important come through? You know, all 
the messages for Canada have to come down by that line.” 

“Yep, I know. Guess that’s why I’m doin’ it. I am a 
genius, I guess. No, nothin’ much’s come through yet. But, 
if there does, I’ll know it.” 

“Fine. Well, that’s all, eh? All right. Say, this is going 
to be great, Greasy! Shake!” 

The two friends shook, mightily satisfied. 

v 

Hector, coming into his quarters one night, found await¬ 
ing him the first of his usual visitors—Welland. 

“Cold night,” said Hector cordially. “Glad to see you’ve 
stoked up the stove.” 

“Yes,” said Welland. “Look at this.” 

He held up Hector’s ink-bottle, placed on a table outside 
the immediate circle of the warmth. The ink was curdling 
into ice. 

“I told Blythe to put the bottle on the stove,” Hector said. 
“He’s forgetful. Had a good trip?” 

“Fine. Went to Prospect. I’m writing home my impres¬ 
sions, you know—have done for some time—and I thought 
I’d get acquainted with that hell-hole. Hadn’t really time 
when I last visited it. I wanted to contrast it with Discovery 
City, thinking it would throw the wonderful order and quiet 
of Black Elk into strong relief.” 

“And ?” 

“Why, it’s the finest contrast I ever clapped eyes on. 
Fact! This place is Paradise. But no wonder. Look at 
your men! Why, the way that kid Gemmell held the pass— 
it’s marvellous!” 


Coup-de-Grace 317 

“I’d have flayed him if he’d let ’em through,” said Hector 
grimly. “Still, it was a good piece of work.” 

“Things might be worse than they are here if a few of 
those swine got in.” 

“Yes. But there are none of that type here.” 

“None?” 

“No.” 

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” Welland smiled. “If those 
Prospect toughs had a hand in the present unrest, for 
instance-” 

“We’d be up against a big thing.” 

“Yes.” 

“But, as it is, there’s a difference.” 

“Aren’t you alarmed?” 

“By the present situation? No.” 

“There’s a lot of discontent,” Welland reminded him. 
“And many tough characters. And they’re armed.” 

“Yes. But they’re sensible. They won’t try violence.” 

Welland fingered his beard reflectively. 

“Why are you so sure ?” he asked. 

“Well, I know positively they’re not preaching violence. 
And I know their opinion of the Mounted Police.” 

“I see,” said Welland slowly. “I see.” 

Just then Blythe put his head in. 

“Dr. Quick’s waitin’ outside, sir.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Hector. “Tell him I’m coming. I go 
round the hospital every night with Quick, you know, Moly- 
neux. Who’s that with you in the next room, Blythe?” 

“Charlie, sir—Mr. Northcote’s man.” 

“Oh, yes. Well, excuse me, won’t you, Molyneux?” 

And Hector, smiling pleasantly, departed. 

“The fool!” Welland’s lip curled sardonically. “We’ve 
got him buffaloed, by God! The poor—blind—fool!” 

VI 

Late that night Antoine, best and fastest dog-driver in 
North America, was summoned to Police headquarters with 
an intimation that he was required for a long and arduous 



318 Spirit-of-Iron 

journey. Antoine was not surprised. Surprise was beneath 
his principles. Besides, he was often employed on special 
missions by the Police, who knew his inflexible fidelity. 

A French-Canadian half-breed was Antoine, a man in his 
prime, built on the slim lines of a runner, deep-chested, broad- 
shouldered. Born in a Hudson’s Bay post, there was no trail 
of the North unknown to Antoine, no team he could not 
handle. To him, a run of one hundred miles a day was next 
to nothing; and he was as punctual as the sun itself. 

Dressed for the trail, parka hood thrown back, dogs and 
sled outside, Antoine waited patiently in the outer office, 
smoking his short pipe and spitting reflectively at the stove 
while the Superintendent, Manitou-pewabic, prepared a de¬ 
spatch in the next room. 

Presently he was summoned into the Presence. 

Behind the lamp sat the Superintendent, quiet, gigantic— 
in Antoine’s eyes, a god and hero. 

“Cold night, Antoine.” 

Antoine nodded. 

Hector held out a large official envelope, carefully sealed. 

“For our representative in Prospect,” he said. “You will 
hand it over to him, Antoine, and wait there for an answer. 
You may have to wait several days. The Sergeant there will 
give you the answer and you will bring it back to me here.” 

Antoine nodded again. 

“Guard both despatch and answer with your life. No-one 
must see the despatch but the Sergeant. No-one must see 
the answer till you give it to me. Tell no-one your business 
either way. You must travel fast, Antoine, very fast—both 
going and coming; faster than ever before.” 

Antoine’s eyes gleamed with the light of battle. 

“All right. Now, this”—the Superintendent handed him 
a small, unsealed envelope—“is a letter which you will show 
to any Mounted Policeman or Mounted Police post, if neces¬ 
sary. It authorizes you to claim any assistance you wish. 
Understand ?” 

Antoine nodded. 

“Dogs in good shape ? That’s fine. Start at once, Antoine. 


Coup-de-Grace 319 

Good luck and goodbye. Remember—the fastest trip you’ve 
ever made-” 

Antoine carefully stowed the two envelopes away and, 
drawing himself to his full height, saluted the Superintendent 
gravely. 

A moment later, whirling his whip, he swept off behind 
his dogs, fleeing like a shadow, under the mysterious sheen 
of the northern lights—swept off into the vast silence, down 
the Prospect trail. 

Welland, roused from sleep by the jingle of bells, gave a 
thought to the "poor blind fool/ turned over in bed and slept 
again. 



Chapter V 


i 

In Hector’s view, the biggest man, mentally or spiritually, 
in Black Elk Territory, was Northcote—by this time one of 
his closest friends. 

With the approach of the long winter night and the slow¬ 
ing down of the wheels of Black Elk activity, Hector saw 
more of Northcote than ever. The clergyman liked to talk 
to the Superintendent, whom he ardently admired. Hector 
liked to talk to the clergyman, because Northcote knew Life 
as few men know it, was charitable and merciful, friend of 
the fallen, rarely criticising, never condemning—no pink-tea 
preacher, shivering at the sight of sin, but a great knight 
wielding a mighty lance in the heart of the dark fight. So 
Hector liked him. 

From Northcote—though the clergyman did not know it— 
Hector learned much. 

Northcote had several favourite themes. And, reclining 
in his chair, pipe in mouth, feet on the stove, he would 
ramble on in his deep, quiet voice, from one theme to 
another, as the spirit moved him, while Hector sat content 
to listen. 

Men open their hearts to each other in that way. 

“Came across a queer case today—” Northcote would 
begin; he always ruminated on these occasions; never 
preached—“a boy here who struck it fairly rich this summer; 
and he wants to buy a claim to work next year—a big 
claim, that will make his pile for life. But his mother, in 
Nova Scotia, is dying. Her only chance is to get to Florida 
or some mild climate. To send her there will cost the boy 
most of his summer’s takings. And that means—no claim 
next year. He’s got to choose between his claim and his 
mother—a nasty situation for an ambitious lad—a nasty 
situation. 


320 


321 


C oup-de- Grace 

“Well, I converted him to the right way of thinking. Gave 
him a little sermon on Sacrifice, gilding the pill. This boy 
is the type which hates anything churchy. So I left out the 
biggest sacrifice of all. But I told him about Nelson, going 
back to sea, maimed and dog-tired of it as he was, to blockade 
Cadiz in his uncomfortable little ships and, eventually, to 
win Trafalgar. I tried to show him how there’s not a really 
successful business man who hasn’t had to make great sacri¬ 
fices to achieve success. He was interested in learning what 
our early explorers endured to open up the country. In the 
end, he realized, I think, that all big things, everything worth 
while, is won by sacrifice. ‘And usually/ I said, ‘there comes 
a time, at least once in every man’s life, when he must make 
one big concrete sacrifice. Sydney made it/ I said, ‘when 
he gave that cup of water to the dying soldier. He wanted 
that water so badly himself. But he gave it up. Once in 
every man’s life/ I said, ‘the time of his great sacrifice comes. 
Your time has come to you now/” 

“And the boy—?” asked Hector. 

“Is sending oflF the money by tomorrow’s mail.” 

The words stuck in Hector’s memory: ‘Everything worth 
while is won by sacrifice.’ ‘Once in every man’s life, the 
time of his great sacrifice comes.’ 

Of one thing he was certain: everything he had achieved, 
thus far, had been won by grim, fierce sacrifice—the sacrifice 
of self to state. But had the time of his great sacrifice 
come—or was it still upon the way? 

He could not answer that question—yet. 

ii 

In the crisis rapidly approaching, Hector, on whom so 
much depended, was conscious of great moral support. 

First, he saw that the level-headed old-timers were with 
him. They were not numerous and their influence was 
small. But individually each man of them was worth any 
two of the clamourous adventurers among whom discontent 
was flourishing. 

Then there was the great moral support of the Commis- 


322 Spirit-of-Iron 

sioner. In those anxious days when the temper of the crowd 
was sweeping towards its climax, he often recalled the Com¬ 
missioner’s encouraging farewell on his transference to the 
gold area: 'It’s the last bit of true pioneering this country 
will see, Adair. ... It will be a big job—one of the biggest 
we’ve ever done, . . . but it will be a splendid thing in the 
way of a crowning achievement to all you’ve done already. 
Make it a credit to yourself and Canada.’ These words 
were to him a tremendous driving force, a great source of 
inspiration. Remembering them, he could feel that, though 
thousands of miles lay between him and headquarters, though 
Black Elk Territory was cut off from the rest of Canada, 
there was still at headquarters a keen, strong personality, 
watching his every move intently, pouring bright rays of 
faith and power and confidence in his direction. 

Greater than all this, however, was the moral support lent 
him by the people of Canada—the real Canada, beyond the 
mountains. He knew that its weight was behind him. With 
each mail he received letters and papers telling him that this 
was so. Politicians—Welland’s political tools and henchmen 
—might be against him. But the people, the great, long- 
suffering, oft-deluded and victimised people, whose hearts 
could not betray them—from coast to coast they knew that 
in Superintendent Adair they had a man. They recognised 
his strength and integrity, and they trusted him to see that 
the dignity of Canada was maintained, the law of Canada 
enforced, in Black Elk Territory. With such support, Hec¬ 
tor felt that he would gladly stand against the world. 

One item in particular, clipped by Hugh from a powerful 
Eastern paper, voiced the general feeling well. Hector had 
read it, wavering between amazement and humility. It was 
high-flown nonsense, of course; but, with the storm fast 
closing upon him, he found much comfort in the memory of 
its sentiment. 

Tn Superintendent Adair’—it ran—'the Canadian people 
have a worthy representative. He is a fighter, born and 
bred, son of a veteran of the Peninsula and Waterloo. So 
he is a living link with the Empire’s great traditions, with 
the blood of British heroes in his veins. Adair was brought 


C oup-de- Grace 323 

up for an officer; and to those who know him he is the per¬ 
sonification of the best type of British officer, whose soul is 
in his corps, who thinks only of the steep and narrow path 
of Duty. But he is more than that. Fate killed his prospects 
of an early Commission. Nevertheless, being determined to 
serve, he joined the original North-West Mounted Police 
and fought his way up through ten strenuous years to com¬ 
missioned rank. And he has continued to advance ever since. 
Today he is looked upon in the West as the embodiment, in 
one individuality, of the entire North-West Mounted Police. 
And the comparison is apt, for we find in Adair all those 
high qualities of devotion, ability, firmness, strength and 
determination which we have learned to expect of the 
Mounted Police. Some even speak of him as the embodi¬ 
ment of Western Canada. And this too, is apt, for he has 
grown up with the country, kept up with and done much 
to aid its advance. And the qualities we attribute to Western 
Canada, once more, are Adair’s. Out there, they call him 
by the name the Indians gave him—Manitou-pewabic—a 
tribute to his personality, for the phrase means ‘Spirit-of- 
Iron.’ Surely this is the spirit which has made not only the 
man, but the Force to which he belongs and the country 
which is its environment—Spirit-of-Iron! 

‘This is the man today responsible for maintaining the 
Queen’s authority in Black Elk. He has a desperate job on 
hand. We have heard of the unrest sweeping the Territory 
from end to end—unrest which may end in serious trouble. 
Cut of? from the rest of Canada and with only a handful 
of men, Adair is sitting on a powder-barrel. That the dis¬ 
gruntled cut-throats returning from the country are so loud 
in their abuse of the Superintendent, however, is the greatest 
possible tribute. Adair has handled many such in his time 
and none has ever beaten him. . . . Whatever may yet 
happen in Black Elk, Adair may rest confident that Canada 
looks to him. And, on their part, the Canadian people may 
rest confident that the country’s honour is absolutely safe 
in the care of this modern Lion of the North.’ 

"The personification of the British officer . . . and of the 
Mounted Police . . . and of Western Canada . . . this 


324 Spirit-of-Iron 

modern Lion of the North’! Rubbish! Nonsense! But 
there was more truth in this article than Hector would 
recognize. At any rate, with the words before him, he was 
resolved humbly to do his best to serve these people, resolved 
firmly to see that, while life remained to him, whatever lay 
ahead, he would not fail them. 

hi 

The exodus of miners from the creeks to the towns was 
now reaching alarming proportions. It was known to all 
men that the unrest and discontent was risen almost to high- 
water mark. No violence had been preached. The law- 
abiding element, from the Lieutenant-Governor down, had 
no idea that there was organisation in it all and still less 
that the real purpose of those secretly behind the movement 
was swift—perhaps bloody—revolution. But they sensed 
a menace vaguely—like horses in a field, restlessly switching 
tails and ears when a tempest is in the air. 

From the Lieutenant-Governor down, they placed their 
confidence in one man—Spirit-of-Iron. The Lieutenant- 
Governor, among many others, had, in fact, told him so. 

“They’re going to spring something, Adair,” he had said. 
“Nothing extreme. But they’re going to ask for my resig¬ 
nation. They don’t trust me. But you can handle them. 
Adair, I’m afraid it will be up to you.” 

Then, with stunning suddenness, came the news—terrible 
news to the law-abiding element, glorious news to the rest— 
that Spirit-of-Iron was ill, perhaps upon his death-bed! The 
Lieutenant-Governor felt that the solid rock on which he 
stood had melted away. 

Blythe, stammering, white-faced, brought the news to Dr. 
Quick, who hurried over. All the twinkle went out of the 
doctor’s eyes when he saw Hector. 

“He would go round the infectious wards with me!” the 
doctor groaned, cursing himself. “It’s typhus!” 

It was easy to isolate the patient. But to keep the news 
from the lawless crowd was impossible. Within twenty-four 


Coup-de-Grace 325 

hours the whole Territory knew that the one man the mal¬ 
contents really feared was hors de combat. 

There was a waitress in Discovery, known to every soul 
in town as Seattle Sue. Her face was painted, her hair 
dyed, her language unfit for drawing-rooms, but she had 
that rare physical phenomenon, a heart of pure gold. In the 
early days of the rush, when the temporary hospitals were 
full, this girl had volunteered to nurse in her spare time— 
no small sacrifice, since her duties as a waitress occupied 
twelve hours daily. Today, Seattle Sue was the best nurse 
in Discovery. 

“We’ll get Seattle Sue!” said Dr. Quick. “We must save 
him!” 

Here it was, too, that Nita Oswald showed the mettle of 
her pastures. Appreciating what it all meant, she was at 
Hector’s door, offering her services, before the doctor had 
finished his preliminary examination. 

With Blythe and the doctor, the two women made a power¬ 
ful quadruple alliance. But the stake was tremendous. It 
would tax them all to the utmost to pull Hector through. 

Outside, day after day, the crowd clamoured for bulletins. 
The men of the Force threatened mutiny if they, at least, 
were not kept informed. But Lancaster would allow no 
bulletins. It was better that the malcontents should not 
know that the great chief was dying. 

The delirium, the worst feature of the case, came on in a 
few days. At times the Superintendent was quite calm, 
whispering, muttering, sighing, smiling; then they guessed, 
from phrases here and there, that he thought himself a boy 
again or at home. At others he talked violently, shouted, 
gave orders, laughed; then they knew that he was living 
through his daily life in the Force, as he had lived it twenty 
years, or fighting over many of his desperate battles. At 
other times—most frequent—he became a raving lunatic, at 
grips with some awful menace, struggling against terrific 
odds, crying bitterly over his physical helplessness, making 
desperate efforts to get up and rush outside. They did not 
know that at these times he was dealing with the local crisis. 


326 


Spirit-of-Iron 

In sane moments, as he insisted, they kept him informed 
of the situation. 

To Hector, his illness was a mad jumble of mental pic¬ 
tures, sometimes awful, sometimes pleasant; interspersed 
with lapses of clear sanity, when the agony of his position 
reached its height. And it went like this: 

He saw himself a small, brown-headed boy, on the lakes 
and in the woods of his old Ontario home. He saw himself 
fighting his first fight in the cause of chivalry, for Nora; and 
suddenly his opponent became Welland, whom he fought 
furiously, though why he could not say. Then Sergeant 
Pierce, long and tanned and solemn, came and stood before 
him, as vividly as if he were alive and in the room. But 
they were not in the room. They were in the stable-yard, at 
home. The Sergeant was giving him advice—the old slogan: 
‘Fight, little master, till the last shot’s fired!’ 

‘Till the last shot’s fired!’ Yes, he must fight till . . . 
but against what? And why? Suddenly he remembered 
and, remembering, wept, cursing his great weakness and the 
Fate that held him helpless at the crisis of his life. 

Then his father came to talk to him—out of the air. He 
saw the fine old gentleman in the library at Silvercrest with 
a small boy at his knee. He was telling stories—stories of 
days long past, of Adairs who had been mighty fighters, 
nobly serving King and Country, each in his time. As he 
talked, he took the small boy up to the coat-of-arms on the 
mantelpiece and made him touch it and the motto beneath: 

‘Strong. Steadfast.’—‘Strong. Steadfast.’ 

He heard his father’s voice: ‘The Adair motto for cen¬ 
turies, Hector. An Adair must always be strong and 
steadfast.’ 

‘An Adair must always be strong and steadfast.’ And 
surely strong and steadfast now—now—when the crisis was 
upon him. ‘Strong. Steadfast.’ And here he was, helpless 
in bed, while the trumpets sounded for battle and he was 
not there! 

Sometimes his mother came—sweet-faced, white-haired— 
smiling—touching his face with gentle fingers. He took her 
in his arms and kissed her. As their lips touched, she be- 


327 


Coup-de-Grace 

came suddenly young and beautiful—became, not herself, in 
the days of her youth—but Frances. He was in Arcady with 
Frances. He heard himself making his humble confession— 
thrilled to her reply—gave a glad, wild cry of joy and swung 
her off her feet, kissing her madly. A hand came out then, 
from nowhere, tearing her away—her father’s hand. No, 
not her father’s—Welland’s. Why Welland’s? Why? She 
was gone—his arms were empty. And he knew T himself 
back in Discovery, weeping for her whom he had lost fifteen 
dreary years ago. 

Nita Oswald and Seattle Sue heard that name, ‘Frances! 
Frances!’ many, many times. Afterwards, while they won¬ 
dered what it meant, they swore never to betray the secret 
the Big Chief had unwittingly revealed. 

Sometimes he fancied himself making his first arrest—the 
arrest of Red-hot Dan. He saw the whiskey-trader at his 
door—but the face was Welland’s. Welland came out, shot 
at him, missed. Hector ran to his horse—galloped away— 
with Welland after him. His enemy required no horse but 
pursued on foot, travelling like the wind. Hector rode at a 
furious pace, over hill and dale, for hundreds—thousands— 
of miles, until it seemed he had been riding months and 
years—but still Welland followed him, tirelessly. Then he 
found himself on the ground, half-stunned, his horse beside 
him, Welland bending over him, pointing a rifle, grinning 
hideously. And Moon came out of thin air to thrust herself 
before the murderer. Hector struggled to his feet and called 
her. She stretched out her arms. He stepped to meet her— 
and found—Mrs. MacFarlane. For some unfathomable rea¬ 
son, he hated her. Thrusting her aside, he fronted Welland 
once more. And yet it was not Welland—but Whitewash 
Bill. He advanced, without a weapon, to meet him—ad¬ 
vanced—and the outlaw became a trumpeter, sounding the 
Reveille. 

Gone, instantly, were all Hector’s hates and fears. En- 
wrapt, he heard the clear call soaring to the stars—soar and 
die, quivering, to merge into the ‘Fall in.’ Before the call 
finished, the trumpeter had vanished. But the magic notes 
went on and drifted into other calls, till he had heard them 



828 Spirit-of-Iron 

all, the calls that were the very voice of the Service he loved. 
Then came wonderful sights—long dear to him—the far- 
crying trumpet playing perpetual accompaniment. He saw 
the old Force riding westward—westward—on the first 
march to the Rockies; saw the sentry at Broncho, smart as 
a Russian prince in fur coat, cap, gauntlets, burnished 
bandolier; saw his old division drilling—glorious ‘J’—a 
mounted parade—saw the long scarlet line circle and wheel, 
heard the tremendous thunder of innumerable hoofs; and 
still the trumpet sounded. The thunder of hoofs swelled to 
roars of applause. The packed hall at Broncho rose before 
him and the Marquis, appearing from the dead, bowed and 
began to sing, over and over again, the chorus of a song 
about himself, sung by the men of the Force everywhere for 
their love of, and pride in, him: 

Hi, you bad young Nitchie, there is someone goin* to git ye; 

Hi, you bad old outlaw! — An’ he’s never known to fail. 
He’s the sold of Law and Order, so you’d better cross the 
border, 

When Manitou-pewabic’s on the trail! 

His heart went out passionately towards these men. Sud¬ 
denly, there was a change. Darkness came over the hall. 
The trumpet, which, somehow, had all the while been sound¬ 
ing, changed its tune to some ominous, terrible call—the 
‘Last Post’—symbolical of the end—and of Death—the 
funeral call! A Union Jack at the end of the room, growing 
suddenly to gigantic proportions, was torn to shreds. Light¬ 
ning and thunder stormed around it. The trumpet call died, 
shuddering. There came a noise like a mighty whirlwind 
and through the shreds a two-headed monster thrust itself— 
its faces the faces of Welland and Molyneux—one and yet 
not the same. Hector awoke, in an agony. 

Then, in moments of lucid thinking, he realised his weak¬ 
ness to the full and saw the situation in all its horror. He 
saw the great crisis, not definitely, but as a vague, impene¬ 
trable menace, coming upon him—Welland, somehow, mixed 
up in it—and could do nothing to divert it. Lancaster had 


C oup-de- Grace 329 

told him, at one time, that the miners, seeking to take 
advantage of his illness, were planning a great meeting at 
which they proposed to present their demands. Knowing 
this, he strove to overcome his weakness, strove piteously 
and failed. No other officer in Black Elk could deal with 
the approaching menace. He felt that; but could not fathom 
it, while he felt it. Again, since his illness, a terrific blizzard 
had come up—one of the worst ever known. The telegraph 
lines were down, Hopeful Pass was blocked and all com¬ 
munication with the outside world was cut off. Antoine had 
not returned. Even he could not return in the blizzard. 
Suppose he did not return before the meeting—what then? 
What then? Again and again, Hector asked for Antoine 
and received from Lancaster the hopeless answer, ‘He has 
not come back.’ This drove him, time without number, to 
try to reach the window, to see if Antoine had returned or 
the blizzard moderated and, that effort thwarted, kept him 
tossing in despair upon his bed. 

In his agony, he saw a crash, himself utterly disgraced, 
all his twenty-odd years of service gone for nothing, the 
trust of his men and of his country turned into a mockery. 
This was the end of his dreams. 

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes 
at last. 

He felt like that other of the Bible, helpless in his cot, 
while Fate shrieked in his ear: ‘The Philistines are upon 
thee, Samson!’ 

The spark of his great courage, which had won for him 
his tribal name, ‘Spirit-of-Iron,’ struggled fiercely in those 
terrible hours—struggled, but flickered and burned low- 

“I’m afraid we’re going to lose him,” said Dr. Quick, 
blinking behind his big round glasses. 

Outside, consternation held the law-abiding element. 

The Lion of the North lay dying, at the mercy of his foes 
at last. 

iv 

Through Blythe, Hector eventually turned the corner. 

He awoke one night to find himself suddenly calm, self- 



330 Spirit-of-Iron 

possessed and comfortable, though as weak as ever. At first, 
having no idea of what had happened to him, he stared 
childishly 'round the room, struggling for light. Then 
gradually he made out a man, wrapped in a blanket and 
lying at the foot of the bed. 

“Who’s that?” he asked. “Who’s that?” 

He thought he spoke loudly. Actually, his voice was little 
• better than a whisper. 

But the man in the blanket sat up, discovering the wan, 
intensely woe-begone face of Blythe. 

“Did you call, sir?” 

“Who’s that ? Is that-” 

Try as he would, he could not remember the name of his 
own servant! 

“Blythe, sir.” 

“Oh, yes, Blythe. Why aren’t you in bed, Blythe?” 

“Bed, sir? Why—why, sir—the fact is”— a suspicious 
huskiness crept into Blythe’s voice and his dismal face quiv¬ 
ered—“they said as you was dyin’, sir-” 

“Dying?” 

“Yes, sir. The doctor gave you up tonight, sir. An’ Miss 
Oswald—an’ that Seattle Sue—they was dog-tired. So—I 
wanted to be near, sir—when you—pegged out—an’ I told 
’em to take a rest, an’—an’ ” 

Here words failed the faithful and tender-hearted Blythe 
and he began to blubber miserably. 

“Why, Blythe! You idiot—you fool, I’m all right! Stop 
it at once—and turn up the lamp.” 

Hector was actually laughing at Blythe, with a touch of 
his old humour. The sight of that doleful face, combined 
with the assertion that he was dying, had brought back the 
Big Chief from the edge of the Great Divide. 

Blythe, delighted, jumped up, turned up the lamp and 
hastened out, returning in a moment with Dr. Quick. 

“What’s this? What’s this?” said the doctor, twinkling. 
“Blythe told me to come quick, because you’re coming 
’round. I’m Quick, Major, at all times, but never quicker 
than I’ve been now.” 

The familiar pun brought another smile to the wasted face. 





Coup-de-Grace 331 

Thank God,’ said the doctor, solemnly, after investiga¬ 
tion, “you’ll do.” 

Then he gave Hector a sleeping draught. 

When Hector awoke again, it was to find Lancaster at 
his bedside. Never had he seen a man in a state of greater 
thankfulness. And behind him were the doctor, Nita and 
Seattle Sue. 

“We’ve decided,” said Lancaster, “that it will be best for 
Discovery City generally to remain ignorant of your recov¬ 
ery—for the present. Meanwhile, Major, you must keep 
quiet and get well.” 

“I agree as to the first remark and also as to getting well. 
But I can’t keep quiet,” said Hector. 

“You must the doctor insisted. 

“I can’t’’ Hector asserted. “If you want me to get well 
quickly, you’ll relieve my mind. Mr. Lancaster, I must see 
you alone—now.” 

The Lieutenant-Governor reluctantly signed to the others 
to leave the room. 

“What time is it?” asked Hector. 

“Three o’clock in the afternoon.” 

“And the date?” 

Lancaster told him. 

“How long have I been ill?” 

“Twelve days.” 

“Good God ! Twelve days! My God, what time I’ve lost!” 

“There’s a chance for you to play your part yet. The 
blizzard has postponed the big meeting for a week. The 
miners from the outlying camps couldn’t travel.” 

“Thank God for that! I’ve a week in which to recover— 
and prepare. We must keep the change secret, as you said 
just now. Surprise is the first element of success.” 

“It is. No-one will know you’ve turned the corner.” 

“Has Antoine returned?” 

The Lieutenant-Governor’s face grew serious. 

“No. He must have been held up. I doubt, now, if he 
can get here in time.” 

“He must!” Hector struggled to sit up in bed. “So much 


332 Spirit-of-Iron 

depends on it. He must get through. He cannot fail us, 
surely-” 

The Lieutenant-Governor put out a hand. 

“Don’t excite yourself, Adair. Take it quietly, man; take 
it quietly.” 

The Superintendent fell back exhausted. 

“Has the blizzard died down?” 

“Yes. There’s still a chance.” 

“Well, we must get ready.” 

“But you’re really not fit.” 

“Nonsense. You told me once you were looking to me.” 

“God knows that’s true—but-” 

“Well, I’m better now.” 

Lancaster stared at the emaciated face, set in its iron-hard 
lines, and gained a deeper sense of the man’s indomitable 
will. 

“You must rest now. Promise me,” he said. 

“On one condition: that you send Forshaw to me tonight.” 

“You’re really not fit-” 

“My God, Lancaster,” Hector groaned in an agony; “how 
can I rest with this thing before me? You must do as I 
ask.” 

The Lieutenant-Governor silently pressed the sick man’s 
hand, trying to express in that simple action all he felt. 

“I’ll send him, Major,” he said. 

When Lancaster left him, Hector lay gasping. The effort 
of the interview, short as it had been, had completely played 
him out. The realization wounded him bitterly. The man 
whose physical strength was proverbial was, he had dis¬ 
covered, at this crisis, as incapable of action as a baby. He 
revolted madly against it, but the fact remained. As with 
his body, so with his brain. Fiercely as he tried, now, to 
form some plan, he found himself utterly unable to do it. 
His penetration, his self-control and powers of concentration 
were all gone. He could not get Antoine out of his mind. 
The man’s absence tortured him, shut out everything else. 
Through the coming days, this was to dominate his thoughts, 
jeering, like a fiend, at his helplessness. 

Exhaustion brought him rest at last. 





Coup-de-Grace 333 

Blythe awakened him some hours later, with a collation 
prepared from eggs. Hector took the glass, astonished. 
Eggs w r ere as rare as women in Black Elk. 

“You bin havin’ ’em ever since you got sick, sir,” said 
Blythe proudly. 

“I have, eh ? A dollar apiece! This will ruin me finan¬ 
cially, I see that.” 

“No ’t’won't, sir,” exclaimed Blythe quickly. 

He watched his chief drink the mixture with intense satis¬ 
faction. 

“How’s that?” 

“Well, sir—” Blythe became hesitant. “Fact is—Ser¬ 
geant Savage, he said he’d break my neck if I told you—the 
boys passed ’round the hat, sir—seein’ you were ill, it was 
all they could do-” 

“You mean—” said Hector slowly, “that the men bought 
these eggs for me, out of their pay?” 

“Yessir,” said Blythe, now shamefaced, feeling himself a 
traitor. “You've had six or seven dozen, sir.” 

Hector put down the glass. Tears welled up in his eyes. 
Blythe looked desperate. 

“I’m not ashamed of them, Blythe,” said Hector thickly. 
“God bless the boys—God bless ’em.” 

Finishing the drink, he felt better. And, somehow, 
Blythe’s confession had helped him wonderfully. The col¬ 
lective strength of the men seemed to pass into him. 

“What’s the time, Blythe?” 

“ 'Bout seven, sir.” 

“Right. Finish your job and clear out. Inspector For- 
shaw will be here soon.” 

With Blythe’s departure, Hector gathered himself together 
for the great effort facing him. His brain was working 
more freely, but his physical weakness filled him with panic. 

“God, but this illness must have pulled me down,” he 
thought, and with the thought resolved to see if it was so. 

Against all orders, he got out of bed and put his slippers 
on. The effort was stupendous. The room swam before 
his eyes and he thought himself about to faint. But he set 
his teeth, calling all his tremendous will-power to his aid. 



334 


Spirit-of-Iron 

feeling that inestimable things depended on his success or 
failure now. Then, clutching at the bed, the chair, the table, 
for support, he made a tragic and heart-breaking pilgrimage 
on his trembling legs across the narrow space to the shaving 
mirror by the lamp. Sweat streaming down his face, his 
heart pounding furiously, he looked into the mirror—re¬ 
ceived a stunning shock- 

His face had shrunk to livid whiteness and was as thin 
as a knife. Two black hollows showed ’round his eyes, two 
in his wasted cheeks. His bloodless lips were set tight and 
his hair—almost in a night—had become streaked with grey. 

That grey hair was the price of the mental torment he 
had endured. That face was the face of the man on whom 
depended everything in Black Elk, that raw skeleton actu¬ 
ally all that stood between Lancaster and his enemies. Then 
God help Lancaster! 

Exhausted, he turned back to bed. How he reached it 
he never knew. 

Presently came Forshaw’s knock. 

He braced himself to fight his great fight. 

‘‘Come in!” 

A moment later he found himself haltingly dictating orders 
to the little Adjutant. 



Chapter VI 


i 

In a small room in a low-down house in Discovery, 
Welland and Greasy Jones met secretly. 

Greasy had successfully made his way through Hopeful 
Pass in disguise and was now in hiding in this low-down 
house, awaiting the hour of the miners’ rally, when the long 
and carefully planned coup was to be made and Black Elk 
Territory declared a republic. 

The rally was planned for eight o’clock that night. It was 
now six a. m. 

The two conspirators had met to arrange the final details. 
Welland had not seen the gangster since their last meeting 
in Prospect. The risks were too great. And one meeting— 
this meeting—in Discovery was all he dared venture. Even 
now he was very nervous. 

“You’re sure everyone’s asleep?” he asked. “And that 
no-one can overhear us?” 

“Sure,” replied Greasy impatiently. “There’s only two 
people in the house. One’s the owner, a man the yallah-legs 
don’t suspect, the other’s my woman—an’ she don’t count.” 

“Your—why did you bring her along? We don’t want 
women here.” 

“You forget I was a respectable trader goin’ to open store 
in Discovery,” the gangster grinned. “An’ t’ have a wife 
along helped the effect.” 

“All right,” said Welland apologetically. “Don’t think me 
a fuss-cat, Greasy. But you understand—a man in my 
position-” 

“What about a man in mine? If the yallah-legs knew I 
was here, I’d be behind the bars in two snorts-” 

“Well, they don’t,” said Welland, “and won’t—till too 
late. Now, do all hands know about the meeting ?” 

335 




336 Spirit-of-Iron 

“Yes,” smiled Greasy. “It’s a meetin’ to present a petition 
to his Nibs the Lieut. Gov. The first-comers, though, an’ 
my men, has been tipped off to what’s goin’ to happen. 
They’re all armed an’ ready to fight, if necess’ry. Arms 
concealed, o’ course. Are you sure the yallah-legs knows 
nothin’ ?” 

“Of our intentions? Nothing! They think it’s a tea 
party. Of course, they’re scared—a little.” 

“Sure to be,” Greasy agreed. 

“How many of your men got through the pass?” 

“ ’Bout thirty. Enough, I guess. That includes Philibert, 
Kelly, an’ Pete—the best o’ ’em. The Spaniard was spotted 
an’, o’ course, No-nose, early in the game.” 

“Good. And they’re to take charge, if it comes to vio¬ 
lence ?” 

“Yep. They’ll be in the crowd, same as me.” 

“I’ve promised the Lieutenant-Governor to go on the 
platform with him. As an M. P., it’s my place. You’ll 
have to arrest me—for appearance’ sake. You can let me 
out afterwards, but I must be arrested, with the rest of 
them.” 

“Yep. I understand. Now what about a programme?” 

“Well, Lancaster proposes to speak first, pleading his case. 
Then the men with the petition plan to present it and answer 
him. I understand Adair may speak, too.” 

“Hell, yes,” said Greasy fiercely. “I thought he was 
dyin’. Yesterday, when the news come ’round that he was 
better—why, it was a real surprise packet, that was!” 

“It certainly was. Even I knew nothing about his recov¬ 
ery till it was announced.” 

“Damn the swine! It ’ud have served us perfectly if he’d 
died. Our biggest enemy out o’ the way-!” 

“That’s true.” Welland’s voice was suddenly very sinis¬ 
ter. “But I’ve a plan for settling him. Best we could have 
—puts him out at the start.” 

“What is it ?” 

“This: The time for us to throw down our cards is just 
after Lancaster and himself have spoken. Adair’s had a 
flag hoisted above the platform. On a given signal, picked 



C oup-de- Grace 337 

men’ll rush forward, led by yourself and your lieutenants, 
capture everyone on the platform, you’ll say your say for the 
Republic, tear down the flag—run up your own—and tell 
Lancaster to order the Police to surrender. He’ll do it, you 
bet, when he sees the odds—every man in Black Elk will 
be there. And—the Territory’s ours!” 

“That’s O. K. But what about Adair?” 

“We’ll want a signal, won’t we? And Adair out of the 
way? We all recognize him as the backbone of resistance, 
don’t we? Well, you get a man you can trust—a dead shot; 
station him somewhere overlooking the platform; as soon as 
Adair finishes speaking, let him be shot down—kill him! 
That blows up your resistance—bang! And there’s your 
signal!” 

“By George, you’re a slick ’un!” 

“Do you agree?” 

“You bet I do. I know just the man. It’s settled, then. 
We shoot Adair!” 


ii 

At six o’clock in the evening, Hector sat in his room, 
awaiting the hour of the meeting. 

Though the week intervening since his recovery had done 
much for him, he was still pitifully thin and weak. His 
clothes sagged on him and his face was deathly. Only the 
determination to see the matter through personally kept him 
up. The Lieutenant-Governor and all his friends marvelled 
at his resolution. 

He was quite calm. 

Blythe came in. 

“Please, sir,” he said gloomily, “there’s a woman wants 
to see you, sir. All in a hurry, she is—out o’ breath. Mat¬ 
ter o’ life an’ death, she says. Queer lookin’, sir, queer.” 

“Never mind. Show her in.” 

The woman was queer. She was in the late forties. Her 
once beautiful hair had been dyed to hide the grey. She had 
been very pretty in her time, but was now flabby, unhealthy 
and inclined to fatness. And she was hopelessly painted and 


338 Spirit-of-Iron 

pencilled. She wore a heavy fur coat. Hector had seen 
many of her kind—women of the streets. 

“What can I do for you?” he asked. 

Horror crept into her eyes at sight of his emaciated face. 
Her nerves on the raw, she twisted her hands restlessly, 
looked here, there, everywhere. 

“You needn’t be afraid of me. What is it?” he said, very 
quietly. 

She burst into a confession, the wildest, maddest thing he 
had ever heard. At the end, she was sobbing at his feet. 

He listened and his face never changed in the slightest, 
but to become a little more set, a little sterner. Nor did he 
move a muscle—just sat motionless. 

“You overheard this fellow talking to the man you live 
with?” he asked at last. 

She nodded, crying. 

“And he is to shoot me when I go up on the platform 
tonight?” 

She nodded again. 

“You don’t know the man?” 

“No. I was in the room upstairs. I heard them through 
the floor.” 

“I see. You wouldn’t know his voice? You didn’t hear 
his name? 

“No.” 

“I see.” Still that calm, thoughtful tone. “They didn’t 
mention where the shot was to come from?” 

“No. Just from the crowd.” 

“So I’m to be shot by an unknown assassin from some¬ 
where in the crowd—a crowd of at least ten thousand, from 
every part of Black Elk,” he said bitterly. 

“That’s it,” she said. 

He knew that to discover the assassin in the crowd would 
be impossible. 

There came a painful silence. Hector broke it. 

“You won’t tell me your man’s name? Is it useless to 
ask?” 

She nodded. 

“I love him,” she whispered. 


Coup-de-Grace 339 

“So I can’t get at him. You won’t even point out the 
house ?” 

“No.” 

“Won’t anything I say drag the information from you?” 

“Nothing will.” 

He considered a while, facing this terrible and unexpected 
menace. 

“Suppose I arrest you ?” 

She started to her knees. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, no!” she gasped. “Don’t do that! 
Sooner or later he—my man—he’d get at me, knowing I’d 
betrayed his plan. And he’d kill me. He’d kill me when 
you let me out, if not before.” 

“But I could jail him too. Suppose I keep you. I can 
get someone to identify you. Then I can arrest your man— 
and discover this assassin from him.” 

“You can’t,” she declared. “Not before the meeting. 
There isn’t time. And anyway, I swear, before God, no-one 
knows me in Discovery.” 

“There’s isn’t time,” he thought. “That’s true.” 

“Well,” he asked her, “what do you propose to do, when 
you leave here?” 

“I’m going to clear out—to Prospect—leave this damn 
country—go home—right now.” 

“Right now, eh ?” he repeated. 

Til have you followed when you leave here and trace you 
to that precious man of yours,’ had been his thought. But 
if she fled at once from Discovery, to follow her would be 
futile. 

“Your man will follow and kill you just the same. He’ll 
easily trace you and catch you up.” 

“I must chance that,” she said desperately. 

He saw that she was really resolved on immediate flight. 

“Why don’t you go back to your man ?” he asked. 

“After betraying his plans? And after he’d forbidden me 
to leave the house today? You don’t know him!” 

“Well, evidently, if I go, I’m certain to be shot,” he smiled. 
“Isn’t that so ?” 

“Yes,” she muttered. 


340 


Spirit-of-Iro?i 

“Then—why did you come to warn me?” 

“I can’t—” she choked—“I can’t stand by and see you 
shot!” 

“Not even by your man’s assassin?” 

“Not even that.” 

“For Christ’s sake, Major Adair,” she burst out sud¬ 
denly, “don’t go!” 

“That’s for me to decide,” he said grimly. “If you’d tell 
me where to find that assassin—I don’t ask you to betray 
your man—I understand that side of it—you might save my 
life. Or if you’d come earlier-” 

“I came as soon as I could,” she protested. “Before God, 
that’s true.” 

“All right. I believe you.” 

By this time, recovering a little, she had risen. He was 
thinking hard. 

“Promise you won’t go,” she begged. 

He looked at her—a piteous object, her powder trailed 
by tears. 

“I promise—nothing,” he said firmly. 

“Oh, if you go, all this will be wasted—you know the risks 
I’ve run—I’ve been through hell today.” 

Her voice rang with agony and despair. 

“I appreciate that,” he answered quietly, “and thank you. 
Now—to get you away safely.” 

“Eh?” 

She stared. 

“You must be escorted,” he went on, his coolness bewilder¬ 
ing her, “or that man of yours will get you. A mail leaves 
here in half an hour—dog-train; the fastest run to Prospect 
going. I’ll send you out with it. It’s under Police escort. 
You’ll be safe.” 

“I—I don’t know—what to say-” 

“Don’t say anything,” he answered. “I owe you this for 
your warning. And—before you go—won’t you tell me 
really why you came? I recognise—forgive my saying so— 
that you’re not illiterate. What induced you-” 

She hung her head—then, swiftly, threw it back—great 





341 


Coup-de-Grace 

courage in the way she faced the scorn she felt impending. 

“Hector,” she exclaimed, “don’t you remember—Georgina 
Harris—in Toronto?” 

He puckered his brows, struggling with his memory. 
Slowly it all came back. He saw the girl standing with him, 
under the lamp—many years, many years ago. 

Georgina Harris—the hideous truth confronted him. The 
girl had followed the path that might have been expected, 
then. This painted, wornout woman, mistress to a criminal, 
was Georgina Harris. Life suddenly seemed a terrible thing, 

youth dead with them both- 

“I loved you once, Hector,” she said wanly. “That’s why 
I couldn’t see vou shot in cold blood—now. Don’t condemn 

m/ 

me, Hector. Please!” 

He could not speak a word. 

As soon as the woman had gone, under Blythe’s escort, 
to join the mail, Hector thought the matter over. 

To discover the assassin now was impossible. Two alter¬ 
natives faced him if he was to save his life: One, to order 
the meeting cancelled; two, to stay away. 

To cancel the meeting at this stage would be useless. The 
crowd would insist on holding it, defying the law. The fat 
would then be in the fire. To stay away would be a con¬ 
fession of weakness, after the declaration that he would 
attend. Moreover, Lancaster could not handle the crowd 
alone. 

He must either betray his trust, let down the country when 
he was needed most, or—face practically certain death. 

He had a very short time in which to make his decision— 

a decision that was so momentous. 

Now he must be truly ‘Spirit-of-Iron’! To face death in 
cold blood, not in battle, but at the hands of an unknown 
assassin—to sacrifice life on the gory altar of Duty that 
was what he was required to do. 

Blow on blow—trial on trial—racking him—scourging 

him- 

The night was dark—very, very dark. 




342 


Spirit-of-Iron 

hi 

At seven o’clock the Rev. Mr. Northcote, strangely ex¬ 
cited, came over to Hector, demanding his immediate attend¬ 
ance at the parson’s quarters. 

“I’m very busy,” said Hector. “What is it?” 

“A most urgent and important matter.” 

“This is very mysterious,” Hector smiled. “Well, just 
for a minute, then. Go ahead. But not too fast. I’m 
tottery still.” 

They walked slowly over to Northcote’s. The world was 
ominously still, frozen in deathly silence. From the town 
came the occasional howl of a husky and a murmur, as of 
a great crowd gathering. The night was pregnant with 
possibilities. 

They entered the shack. Northcote pushed open the 
sitting-room door. 

“In there,” he whispered, smiling—gave Hector a gentle 
push—he went in. 

The room was brightly lighted. By the stove stood a 
woman, in breeches, heavy stockings, moccasins and macki¬ 
naw coat—a woman with ruddy-gold hair—strangely 
familiar- 

“Hector!” she said. 

He heard his own voice, on a strained, unnatural note: 

“Frances!” 

Then everything went black before his eyes. 

The shock passed, leaving behind an ecstasy. He felt that 
he was dreaming and would awake to a world of cold, deadly 
fact at any moment. He saw her hanging back, irresolute, 
as if she doubted his feelings after all these years. And, a 
second later, he knew himself holding her hands, tumbling 
out broken, incoherent words, leaving no time for her breath¬ 
less, half-crying, half-laughing answers, and at last, taking 
her in his arms, kissing her desperately, saying over and over 
again: 

“Frances! . . . Frances!” 

While she answered, as he allowed her, with: “Hector! 
Oh, Hector! My dear, darling. . . . Hector-” 




343 


Coup-de-Grace 

Then—everything else forgotten—except the marvellous, 
wonderful fact that she was with him—he began, turning 
her face to the light, holding her hands in a fevered clutch: 

“But Frances. . . . Why are you here? When did you 
get here? Frances, I don’t understand. . . . This is too 
miraculous-” 

“Didn’t you get my letter?” 

“Your letter—when?” 

“Hector, I wrote you not long ago, telling you I was on 
my way up here, and to write and tell me not to if you—if 
you’d forgotten. And, as you didn’t answer-” 

“I never had it. Our mails are uncertain. Several have 
been lost—shipwreck and so on. Frances, this is a surprise. 
... I can’t speak. . . . ” 

“I was terribly afraid—before you came in—that you’d 
—you might have—forgotten, Hector. I didn’t know 
whether you’d think me mad—but I had faith in you. I’ve 
never forgotten what you said—that night at home—when 
you said you’d never—well, love anyone else—and I prom¬ 
ised to be true to you. So I thought, ‘He’ll keep his word.’ 
Then, when I met Mr. Northcote—he’s such a dear—and 
found he knew you so well—I just told him, Hector. And 
he said he was sure—I needn’t be afraid-” 

“Afraid?” She was in his arms again. “Afraid? 
Frances, if you only knew—how I’ve thought of you—how 
your face has always been before me—day and night—in 
these fifteen long, long years—what hell I went through 
when I lost you—and how hope left me long ago—so I just 
went on alone. I’m not the sort that loves more than once, 
Frances. I’ve loved you always—you don’t know what 
you’ve been to me—I’m no orator, Frances, but-” 

“I can guess—” she whispered. 

Presently, he asked her, overwhelmed once more with 
wonder: 

“But Frances—how did you get here—where did you meet 
Northcote? Surely you didn’t come into this wild part of 
the world—alone?” 

“Not exactly alone. I chummed up with some men on the 
boat—and your fellows—how magnificent they are, Hector! 






344 


Spirit-of-Iron 

r—helped me along. I met Mr. Northcote by chance, at 
Lucky. The blizzard caught him there, like the rest of us— 
he’d come down on business, he said. He offered to escort 
me to Discovery. And that explains, doesn’t it?” 

“But then—you really came alone—all this way? Why?” 

“Must I tell you?” she asked, eyes very misty. 

“Frances—not-?” 

“Because you were here? Yes, Hector.” 

“But—why, it’s the pluckiest-” 

“Love makes heroes of us all, Hector.” 

He kissed her again, passionately. 

“Still I’m in the dark, Frances. Your long silence—> 
where have you been ? What have you been doing ? I wrote 
when I got my Commission, you know—to the address you 
gave Mrs. Tweedy—you remember her? Well, it came back 
—a ‘dead letter’—and after that it was useless, of course* 
to write again. Why didn’t you get that letter?” 

“We moved away from that address in a day or so. Then 
father started us off on a wild pilgrimage—everywhere, in 
the States, to cover our trail—afterwards to England— 
France-” 

“I see. But why didn’t you write—you had my address— 
a word—a line?” 

“Don’t reproach me, Hector. Father had me spied on 
shamelessly. I couldn’t get a letter out of the house—or 
write one. It was terrible. But I stood it, for mother’s 
sake.” 

“But surely—in fifteen years?” 

“Wait. When we got to France, father made a marriage 
of convenience for me—a wealthy young Frenchman— 
Deschamps-” 

“Then—why are you here?” 

She saw the light dying in his eyes. 

“Goose,” she laughed. “Let me finish. I had to marry 
him. Oh, Hector, I can’t tell you the agony, the shame, I 
went through—the fight I made. But it was no good. I 
married him at last—because I had to, Hector. I gave you 
up then, forever—because I had to. Jules was terribly jeal¬ 
ous—he really did love me, Hector. When once his wife. 







Coup-de-Grace 345 

I had to play the game, even though it—broke my heart. 
You must understand, Hector.” 

“I do,” he answered. 

“But—afterwards—I couldn’t put you out of my mind. 
God knows, I tried. I couldn’t love Jules. We drifted 
. apart. But I played the game. All the same, I couldn’t 
forget you. I followed your career, Hector, as well as I 
could. You don’t know how proud and happy I was to see 
you climbing up—up—up—all the time.” She smiled delight¬ 
fully. “I watched for—a wife, Hector. But none appeared. 
Can you guess my thoughts, then? I can’t express them. 
They’re a secret between God and me. But I was happier 
than ever.” 

“Frances!” he said. 

“A year ago, Jules died. As soon as his affairs were 
settled, I travelled extensively. I was restless—didn’t know 
what to do. Father and mother are both dead, so I couldn’t 
go back to them. Gradually it came to me, Hector, tha t 
I should seek you out—wherever you were. I felt sure of 
you still, Hector, dear, you see—and perhaps you needed 
me. But what’s the use of saying more? I returned to 
Canada. It was easy to find out where you were. Then I 
wrote—and followed the letter. That’s all.” 

“Frances! After all these years-” 

So, for a moment, they gave themselves up to their great 
happiness. It seemed to Hector that all his dreary, toilsome 
life was compensated for, then and there; that once again he 
was back in Paradise. 

“We can still begin, Frances,” he told her. “It’s not too 
late. But if only you’d come before. . . . Frances, I’m in 
the forties—think of it—with you, it doesn’t matter—” He 
took her face in his hands and looked at her with a tender¬ 
ness that pierced her heart. “Frances, dear, you’re just the 
same! You’ve hardly changed a bit—and I—I! ” 

“Hector, don’t talk like that.” Tears blinded her. “You’ve 
been ill—my poor boy! Mr. Northcote didn’t know, till we 
got here this afternoon, or we’d have hurried even more. 
Hector—Hector ” 

For the first time she realised to the full his ghastly 





346 Spirit-of-Iron 

thinness, the age in his hair, and contrasted it, agonizingly, 
with the proud strength and youth she had known long ago. 

‘‘Don’t cry, little girl,” he soothed her. “I’m all right. It’s 
not too late. I-” 

Then he remembered- 

Remembered the situation in Black Elk—that in a few 
minutes he must join issue single-handed with a hostile 
crowd—and, worse than that, face certain death. 

Slowly, the awful cruelty of the position sank into his 
breast; that, just when, after fifteen dreary years, Frances 
had been given back to him, he was required by circum¬ 
stances to give her up again. 

The iron hand of Duty had him in its grip, was crushing 
him—robbing him of everything. 

Why had Frances been given to him, at this, of all times, 
when he must give her up so soon? Better if she had not 
come at all. It was not fair—it was hideous—that he should 
be faced with such a choice as this- 

The choice between his duty and his great love. 

Yet that choice he had to make. To the meeting he must 
go—after a little half-hour of ecstasy—half an hour in fif¬ 
teen years!—he must say ‘Goodbye.’ 

The Human Parson’s words came back to him now, in 
all their awful truth: 

‘Everything worth while is won by sacrifice.’ ‘There 
comes a time, at least once in every man’s life, when he must 
make one big concrete sacrifice.’ 

This was the time for him. It had him now! 

She read the agony in his face. 

“Hector,” she begged, terrified. “What is it? What 
is it?” 

He told her—not of the assassin—what was the use?— 
but of what was before him. And she guessed the rest. 

“Is there danger?” she said. Then, “Oh, I know there’s 
danger! Hector, Hector—don’t go—my dear—it’s too much 
—after all these years of loneliness—I don’t want-” 

Pie took her hands, holding them strongly. 

“Frances,” he told her, “this is—terrible—to me. Don’t 
make it any harder than it already is.” 






Coup-de-Grace 347 

She clung to him. He took her in his arms. So these two 
held to each other, the wreckage of their hopes around them, 
in their great agony. . . . 

Northcote knocked softly at the door. 

“Major,” they heard his voice, “it’s time to go.” 

“Frances—” said Hector. 

She made a tremendous effort—triumphed—smiled bravely 
into his face- 

“Go then, dear,” she whispered. “God bless you.” 

This was a woman of the type which makes the old poet’s 
words so very true: 

“Sweet and seemly is it to die for one’s country.” 

iv 

Throughout the afternoon, Welland had been in joyful 
mood. 

His plans were completed and about to bring forth fruit. 

Wandering through crowded Discovery, he sensed the 
temper of the people and felt that he could not fail. 

The revolution which the politician had induced Greasy 
Jones to foster had, for Welland, two purposes: first, the 
ruin of Superintendent Adair; second, his own political 
advancement. 

On coming to Black Elk, Welland had aimed to secure a 
share of its riches and to look for an opportunity of smash¬ 
ing the Superintendent. His effort to break Hector openly 
having failed—as witness the Whitewash Bill affair—he had 
recognized that the only method likely to succeed was one 
of secrecy. A short stay in Prospect, a few weeks in Dis¬ 
covery, had shown him that he had admirable material at 
hand. Hundreds of desperate men, requiring only judicious 
bribery or subtle encouragement, were there to do his bid¬ 
ding. Meanwhile, he had acquired his share of Black Elk 
riches by purchase and partnership. 

In time he realised that the civil administration was not 
incorruptible, though Lancaster, at its head, was above 
suspicion. He had already discovered much discontent. The 
idea struck him: Why not secure the services of a desperado 



348 Spirit-of-Iron 

—Greasy Jones was the lucky man—to foster this discontent 
and bring about revolution? A few hundred men, if the 
plan were kept secret, could overthrow the Government. 
Adair would be held responsible, as having failed to detect 
the plot or crush the rising. The result would be his ruin. 
But, when the wheels were started, Welland realised that, 
without a just grievance, the movement would be supported 
only by the discontented minority. Then he remembered 
the weaknesses of the administration; offered it bribes, 
through other men; found that it could be tempted; and at 
once undermined the public confidence in its honesty by 
systematically corrupting it. This enabled him to enrich 
himself and to stir the people to a sense of wrong. 

In a short time nearly everyone in the Territory was 
clamouring for a change, or at least a general clean-up. 
They were ripe for revolution. 

And Welland wanted revolution; and wanted Greasy 
Jones and his crowd to dominate. For revolution would 
mean Hector’s ruin. In that respect, he had been honest 
with the gangster. But he was far too wise to imagine that 
the Dominion would permit the Territory to remain under 
the revolutionary flag. He knew perfectly well that the 
Government, in the end, would crush the revolt and re¬ 
establish the Queen’s authority. Therefore, it behooved him 
to look to the future. And, in looking to the future, he saw 
his chance to climb out of the wreckage of the revolution 
to higher things. 

Frankly, he intended to do nothing, either for or against 
the revolution, after the Queen’s authority was overthrown. 
He intended to remain quiet until the troops from Canada 
arrived. Then his scheme was to help the Government to 
‘tidy up’ in every way. He would tell them that he had 
foreseen the trouble all along, had written home hinting of 
its coming—as he actually had—but had felt confident of 
Lancaster’s ability to hold his place. He would tell a long 
tale of how Greasy Jones, after the revolution, had held him 
captive. He would make his special knowledge of the Ter¬ 
ritory invaluable. And, with one thing or another, he would 
finally appear in the eyes of the Government and of Canada 


Coup-de-Grace 349 

generally as the one capable man in Black Elk, a statesman 
and a hero. The result would be at least a place in the 
Cabinet. He might even rival the Prime Minister. 

The only man from whom he had anything to fear was 
Greasy, who alone knew his part in fostering the revolution. 
Greasy would certainly betray him to the re-established au¬ 
thority—if he waited for it, which Welland was certain he 
would not. But no one would believe Greasy. His assertions 
would be thought preposterous. How could his word—or 
that of any of his confreres—count against that of Mr. 
Steven Molyneux, M. P. ? 

Thus would the revolution achieve Welland’s two aims: 
Hector’s ruin; and his own climb to great power. 

For the first alone, he would never have run such risks; 
but for both, he had done so. And all was well. 

Hector’s death, at the hands of an unknown assassin, had 
come to him in the later stages, as an inspiration. The Su¬ 
perintendent’s illness had shown Welland how anxious he 
really was to see his enemy dead. But, at the same time, 
he wished him to taste humiliation before he died. His 
recovery gave Welland a chance to achieve that wish. To 
find himself shot, at the very moment when the country 
needed him most, to die with the triumphant shouts of the 
revolutionists in his ears, shouts telling his degradation— 
what could be more terrible to Hector? Welland’s plan 
allowed for this. 

The politician was very, very happy. He saw the enemy 
of a lifetime dead at his feet, the revolution a success and 
the name of Superintendent Adair smirched and blotted, as 
representing one who had slept at his post and betrayed the 
people. And then he saw the revolution crushed and him¬ 
self risen to heights as yet untouched. 

At ten to eight he walked over to join the Lieutenant- 
Governor, so that he might sit on the platform and witness 
Hector’s downfall. 

Altogether, with his treachery to the Black Elk authori¬ 
ties and his treachery to Greasy Jones, Welland was not un¬ 
qualified for the stigma, Traitor. 


350 


Spirit-of-Iron 

v 

In the main square of Discovery City a vast crowd, rep¬ 
resenting most of the inhabitants of Black Elk, was assem¬ 
bled—a wild, undisciplined crowd, a heaping shovelful from 
the rubbish-heap of the whole wide world. For days it had 
been gathering together, its outward purpose to force Lan¬ 
caster’s resignation, the real purpose of its leaders to launch 
revolution. They did not contemplate bloodshed. But they 
were ready for it. 

From a platform at one end of the square the Lieutenant- 
Governor and the officer commanding the Mounted Police— 
the one man they really feared—were to speak. Torches and 
lanterns around it threw it into a fierce light and illuminated 
the Union Jack which flapped idly from a pole above. The 
light fell also on the faces of the nearest men and was at 
last lost in the great heart of the crowd. Overhead the 
aurora surged and quivered, advanced and retired, staging 
marvellous pageantry in the intense darkness and seeming 
to rustle and to whisper. There was an awful atmosphere 
in the scene, as though something tremendous were about 
to happen. 

It was eight o’clock. 

A thunderous roar burst suddenly from the crowd, burst 
and rolled back and forth, like the roar of a fitful wind over 
the sea. Acclamation, surprise, above all, hostility, were in 
that strange cry. 

The Lieutenant-Governor’s party had appeared on the 
platform. 

Lancaster brought no escort with him. None of the 
Mounted Police fringed the outskirts of the crowd. But 
with Lancaster was Major Adair. 

Welland seated himself at the edge of the platform. He 
had no wish to be near Adair when the assassin fired his shot. 

The crowd grew impatient, shouting and whistling, jeer- 
ingly for the Lieutenant-Governor. Suddenly a man arose, 
walked forward and held up his hand for silence. 

A hush full of surprise—surprise affecting none more than 


Coup-de-Grace 351 

Welland—fell on the crowd. The man was not Lancaster. 
It was Spirit-of-Iron. 

This was an unanticipated change in the programme. In a 
corner below the platform Nita Oswald, seeking the ‘scoop' 
of her life, made her pencil fly over her notebook. 

To the crowd, this man seemed to have arisen from the 
grave. They knew how close to death he had recently been. 
And his face was ghastly, while his clothes hung on him. It 
was evident that he was making a tremendous effort in 
attending the meeting at all. Grudging admiration seized 
them. They loved courage. Moreover, the man's personality 
was already gripping them, making them his. 

To Hector, this was the supreme moment of his life, to 
which he had looked forward for months. He felt that 
everything depended on him in this crisis. If ever he had 
swayed men, cowed men, he must sway and cow them now, 
though he drooped with fatigue. 

He had not forgotten the assassin. That unknown devil 
lurked always at the back of his mind. But he had passed 
the stage when he really cared whether the shot was fired or 
not, so long as he could master this immense mob—so im¬ 
mense that it seemed illimitable. Fortunately, he did not 
feel as if he faced this immensity, this monster stretching 
away and away into the darkness, alone. He felt—a wonder¬ 
ful feeling—that the strength of all Canada, for whom he 
was enduring this thing, was behind him, helping him to 
dominate, trusting him, looking to him—and behind Canada, 
the Empire- 

So in the silence, he began. He had a strange sensation 
that someone else, far mightier than he, was speaking. 

“Men, you are here tonight, believing yourselves victims 
of a corrupt administration, to present a petition to the Lieu¬ 
tenant-Governor, which, among other things, calls for a 
general clean-up, for Mr. Lancaster's resignation and for a 
transference of the power held by the Dominion Government 
to yourselves. This is the programme. I want to tell you 
that most of you have been deceived.” 

Welland felt a sudden chill. The crowd stirred, muttering, 



352 Spirit-of-Iron 

with an occasional shout of angry dissent—stirred and was 
still again. 

“Now, it is not my purpose tonight to dispute the argu¬ 
ments of those among you who are sincere. I will show you 
in a moment, however, that even your petition will prove 
unnecessary. What I do want to remind you of is that my 
duty here is to maintain the authority of the Dominion 
Government. And I am going to do it!” 

The crowd waited sullenly. The determined ring in that 
last sentence stirred them. 

“Many of you are foreigners, born under tyrannous gov¬ 
ernments, hating all constituted authority. The Canadian 
Government is a government of the people. It is not tyran¬ 
nous. The Government of the British Empire, as a whole, is 
the same. Yet, when you come under the British Flag, in¬ 
stead of appreciating all this, you will listen to anyone who 
asks you to tear it down. Such an act is an act against your¬ 
selves—not against a tyrant, as you believe. The people, of 
whom the Queen is Sovereign, put me here to keep that Flag 
flying. And I’m going to keep it there !” 

Jeers swept up to him. But the great mass of the crowd 
still waited. 

“This isn’t a defiance. I’m merely warning you not to do 
anything you regret. I want you to act like sensible men. 

“Now, let me tell you the truth. A big element among you 
is out, not for constitutional change, but revolution!” 

A weird sigh, a long-drawn intaking of breath, ran over 
the great throng, expressive of stunned surprise and a sense 
of being trapped. As for Welland, his feelings beggar 
description. Hector was speaking very rapidly now, driving 
home his facts, beating down all opposition. 

“It’s the truth. I have all the proofs. That element is out 
for revolution—possibly bloody revolution. They want to 
establish a republic—the Black Elk Republic!” 

The bomb was thrown—with extraordinary effect. 

“Listen! You’ve been absolutely fooled! Your leaders 
have led you into a trap. There’s an inner ring in this con¬ 
spiracy. As soon as the revolution had taken place and the 
present authorities were overthrown, that ring—a ring of the 


Coup-de-Grace 353 

worst desperadoes on earth, many the sweepings of Pros¬ 
pect—was to establish a dictatorship. Those of you who 
don’t know this would have known it very soon. Those who 
do, even these leaders themselves, would have found them¬ 
selves one day with heads in a noose. You want the proofs? 
You don’t. You know it’s true.” 

Welland had grown cold. 

“Those of you in the know thought I was asleep. A cer¬ 
tain individual who ran the whole thing”—Welland half 
arose, a mad impulse to run away upon him; but Hector did 
not betray him—“he thought so, too. What are the facts? 
I have secret agents everywhere, known only to myself. 
One of them, in Prospect, brought me the first inkling of the 
plot. Unfortunately, he was shot before he could get more 
information. But others worked for me. What they couldn’t 
discover, I guessed. I knew that gangsters were smuggling 
themselves through the pass; and that arms were being smug¬ 
gled in, too. In fact, I let many of them through, so that 
those at the bottom of the plot wouldn’t smell a rat. You’ve 
been told, by special speakers, a pack of lies. Mr. Lancaster 
and I, over a month ago, took steps to show you that they 
were lies. We knew that the telegraph lines were being 
tapped, but we kept on sending ordinary messages through, 
so that your leaders wouldn’t know that. We knew that 
even the mails weren’t safe. So we sent a special runner to 
our office in Prospect, with two messages to be forwarded 
and he brought the answers back. The first message was 
to the Dominion Government, the second to the Government 
of the United States, through the Dominion Government. 
They dealt with the situation and they secured answers which 
show how you’ve been duped. In this one, the Dominion 
Government pledges itself to a clean-up, through Mr. Lan¬ 
caster, and to grant you wider powers than you have had 
hitherto. In that one, the American Government assures 
us that, contrary to what you’ve been told, it will on no 
account support any attempt to wrest Black Elk from Can¬ 
ada !” 

There was absolute silence. Hector held the letters up. 

“Look at them. If you think they’re forgeries, let your 


354 Spirit-of-Iron 

representatives examine them! But wait—there is some¬ 
thing else in this letter from Ottawa. The Government is 
sending ten thousand troops up here to crush any revolt. 
We asked for them. They’re on their way. That’s what 
you’ve been led into! 

“And the situation—now? I’ve stripped all my posts and 
detachments. Nearly all my officers and men arrived here 
secretly last night. They are now standing to arms with four 
machine-guns, at the barracks. There are also there a thou¬ 
sand loyal citizens of this Territory, all armed and under my 
orders. Half an hour ago, raids were made on the places 
where the would-be leaders of the revolt—Greasy Jones 
and his cut-throats—were hiding. Greasy Jones was shot 
dead by Inspector Cranbrook, after the gangster had wounded 
him. The rest are behind the bars. We also captured docu¬ 
ments, stamps, flags and so on, giving conclusive evidence of 
what was coming. And we know that many of you are 
armed. 

“That’s all I have to say. This thing can’t succeed. The 
Americans will not support it. Troops are on the way to 
back us up. The men who planned it are in our hands. 
Your grievances have been adjusted. We are fully armed 
and prepared to stand by the Flag to the last. What I say 
goes. Now, boys, take my advice and go home.’’ 

There he ended. 

The effect of this dramatic and totally unexpected ex¬ 
posure of the whole plot and of Adair’s preparations was 
indescribable. Even Lancaster was speechless—Hector had 
confided in him only what was absolutely necessary. Wel¬ 
land, unable to grasp the situation, was stunned. As for the 
crowd, it was paralysed. Hector had impressed them from 
the first. His final disclosures completed their stupefaction. 
Suddenly they saw the revolution with the bottom knocked 
out and remembered that this man was called ‘Spirit-of-Iron.’ 

Hector sensed the change immediately and knew that he 
had triumphed. All his past life, his early training, his de¬ 
velopment, had been leading up to this crisis—this crisis 
which involved not only himself and his own welfare, as 
other crises had done, but also a great national issue, the 


355 


Coup-de-Grace 

defeat, not only of his own enemy, but the enemy of his 
country. In a moment he saw that Destiny had given him 
victory in this last grim battle. His part was done. 

But the assassin had not yet played his part. He had been 
instructed to fire as soon as the Superintendent ceased speak¬ 
ing. To him the change in the state of affairs involved no 
change. Through the strange silence came the crash of a 
rifle fired from somewhere on the outskirts of the great 
crowd—fired while Hector was still at the edge of the plat¬ 
form. Then Nita Oswald’s voice, shrieking, clear and high: 
“They’ve killed him! They’ve killed him!” 

VI 

Nugget City, 

B. E. T., 
Today’s Date. 

To The Officer Commanding, 

N. W. M. P. 

Black Elk Territory. 

Sir: 

I have the honour to enclose a report just received from 
Sergeant Kellett, in charge of the post on Hopeful Pass. 

I have the honour to be, sir, 

Your obedient servant, 

J. G. Gemmell, Inspector, N. W. M. P. 

Enclosure. 

Hopeful Pass Detachment, 

B. E. T., 
Today’s Date. 

Officer Commanding, 

N. W. M. P. 

Nugget City, 

B. E. T. 

Sir: 

With reference to the attempt to establish a revolutionary 
Government in this Territory, I have the honour to report 
as follows: 


356 Spirit-of-Iron 

The nine-day blizzard following the night of the meeting 
at Discovery City tied up all traffic through this pass. 
Nevertheless, patrols were constantly maintained. Three 
snow-bound men were rescued, one man destitute taken in 
and one man, found snowed up, with dogs dead, was brought 
into the post dying from exhaustion and exposure. 

On being revived, the latter individual made a confession 
bearing on the shooting at Discovery, copy of which is en¬ 
closed. However unreliable it may seem, this man was 
apparently of sound mind when he made this confession. 

He stated that for the past eight months he had been em¬ 
ployed on secret service work for the Officer Commanding 
this Territory, whose agents are known only to himself. In 
the course of his duties, he discovered that Mr. Steven 
Molyneux, M. P., was hand-in-glove with the gangster, the 
late Greasy Jones, planning the overthrow of the Government. 
In Prospect, he gained Jones’ confidence and entered Black 
Elk Territory at about the same time. At noon on the day 
of the meeting, Greasy Jones informed him that he wished 
him to assume a post covering the platform and shoot Su¬ 
perintendent Adair. From previous information, he had 
already deducted that Mr. Molyneux’s motive in plotting 
revolution was to harm Superintendent Adair; and certain 
statements made by Jones at this time convinced him that 
Mr. Molyneux had suggested the assassination to Jones. 
He agreed to do the shooting, but, knowing that Mr. Moly¬ 
neux would be on the platform, resolved to shoot Mr. Moly¬ 
neux instead. He therefore occupied a window commanding 
the platform, having dogs and sled ready for flight, and 
fired the shot at the time arranged, but at Mr. Molyneux 
instead of Superintendent Adair, with, as you know, deadly 
effect. In the confusion, he escaped, his intention being to 
get through the pass to Prospect and so away. 

He stated that his motive in killing Mr. Molyneux was to 
repay Superintendent Adair, who had given him a chance 
years ago, when everyone was against him. He considered 
that a man who would plot such an underhand blow as Moly¬ 
neux’s was not fit to live anyway, and thanked God that he 
had killed him. 


Coup-de-Grace 357 

The man expired a short time after making his confession. 

He gave the name of Augustus J. Perkins. 

I would repeat that, incredible as his accusation against 
Mr. Molyneux may seem, he was of apparently sound mind 
when he made it. 

The corpse is in a temporary morgue, awaiting burial in 
the spring. 

I have the honour to be, sir, 

Your obedient servant, 

R. S. Kellett, Sergeant, N. W. M. P. 

Hector was at work on his account of the attempted revo¬ 
lution, for despatch to the Commissioner. For the last time, 
before enclosing it, he read Sergeant Kellett’s report, care¬ 
fully and deliberately. Then he thought deeply over Wel¬ 
land’s part in the affair and especially of the last words of his 
enemy, gasped into Hector’s ear as he lay dying on the plat¬ 
form, shot through the lungs: 

“Adair—if you remember who I really am—for God’s 
sake don’t betray me!” 

Plere, in writing his report, he had a glorious opportunity 
of paying the dead man back in his own coin—of telling the 
world that Steven Molyneux was really Joseph Welland, ex¬ 
criminal ; and that the man to whom the people had entrusted 
great power had misused it in an attempt to bring about revo¬ 
lution within the Dominion. No good purpose would be 
served—but revenge is sweet. In his hands alone rested the 
dead man’s honour. He alone possessed the facts. 

He turned back to the report—to the paragraph which the 
Prime Minister himself was to read in Parliament a few 
months later, in moving a vote of thanks to Superintendent 
Adair : 

‘Referring to the attached report from Sergeant Kellett, 
although the man Perkins actually had acted as one of my 
agents, there is no evidence to support the statement that 
he did the shooting, nor to show that the late Mr. Molyneux 
was concerned in the revolutionary plot. I think this should 
be sufficient to clear Mr. Molyneux’s reputation. Despite 


358 Spirit-of-Iron 

Sergeant Kellett’s view, I am of the opinion that Perkins 
was not of sound mind when he made his statement.’ 

So might Molyneux’s reputation be preserved, at no ex¬ 
pense to Perkins. 

A few words more completed the report. The door opened 
softly. Frances came in. 

“Dare I intrude-” she whispered, “now” ? 

He was up in a moment, with much of his old vigour and 
a swiftness that showed him rapidly recovering from his 
illness of a fortnight before. 

“Yes,” he answered her, smiling. “Duty first,—but I’ve 
finished at last. What is it?” 

“I thought I’d come and tell you something, Hector—a 
splendid surprise. Dr. Quick told it me in confidence and 
really, though it’s a shame to give it away, I’m so proud 
that I just can’t keep it to myself any longer.” 

“Oh?” He was holding her hands now, towering over her 
and smiling down quietly upon her with his steel-grey eyes. 
“What is the surprise?” 

“Hector, dear—when Mr. Northcote’s tied the kix>t—to¬ 
morrow—there’s going to be a huge reception. Everyone 
will be there—almost all the would-be revolutionists—blind 
fools, they understand you now—Oh, and lots of others! 
And they’re to present you with an address and a wonderful 
gift—there’ll be thousands of then,^-Hector! Isn’t it glor¬ 
ious ?” 

“I don’t want their presents, Frances—when I have you. 
I just did—what it was my duty to do. It’s you I want!” 

He lifted her lips to his. She ran a hand tenderly over the 
grey hair. 

“ ‘Your duty—that’s all!’—‘You only want me!’ Hector, 
that’s so like you,” she whispered. “That is you— my splen¬ 
did Spirit-of-Iron!” 


THE END 









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